1. |
Three Tears
03:56
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One eye to train upon your stride, one twisted iris ties your thighs, one jilted lover broken wide. One eye that's locked upon your past, one twisted mouth that's shuttered fast, two empty sockets left behind. A very British kind of grief: the patchwork heart, the bloody sleeve, the upper lip, the smile beneath. Refuse to go, refuse to leave, he sold his home and crossed the sea, two eyes are trained upon your heel.
Three tears remain.
One hand that traces on the map, a line in red, a cross in black, you fled the nest, he caught your wing. One hand that's wrapped around your wrist, white knuckled words and shaking fist, 'I'll shoot you down to hear you sing.' One empty chamber in the gun, five brassy heads, one smoking tunnel to a road you'll never see. Three tears that fell from out those eyes, one from the left, two from the right, one flaming car, one orange sky.
Three tears remain.
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2. |
So Long, Livingstone
03:05
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'Good breading is the key,' he said. The clamour from behind his wall would raise the dead, and did they said. From padlocked pounds the sound of hounds, baying, wailing gutter growls went drifting down the roads to ring and mingle with the moans. Livingstone was at the bar singing loud with outstretched arms then clinging to my shoulder as we sang and staggered home. I left him where the wall bit down like crooked teeth into the ground, tall and vast and built to last around the fifty square foot patch in which he hid his home.
So Long, Livingstone.
I left him as he turned the key and fell inside upon his knees, and when I went to stumble home the howling wind of canine clamour bit me to my bones.
So long, Livingstone.
So long, Livingstone.
Seems I was the last to see living Livingstone all in one piece, alive and singing as he fell upon his knees. When they bust the fence the dust was red, forty dogs lay as though dead but breathing slow with skinny ribs on show and whistling through their teeth, with thick black lips like ragged tyres, bulging, burst and blinded eyes, all twisted out of shape 'til I could barely recognise them. Livingstone was blood and bone, the bile rising in my throat, the scattered fragments of the man I used to know.
So long, Livingstone.
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3. |
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Who makes love on coffin lids?
Cemetery scenester kids.
I went on the ghost tour and got more than I paid for.
The seedy, midnight populace of Glasgow's great Necropolis.
The prophylactic practises of solitary emo kids.
Slough the slipping snake-skins on the tombs of sleeping kings, observe the cider cans and lighter burns of volatile teenagers.
Several sweating spectres attest to the unrest of centuries-old sex pests given rise by trembling flesh.
These house-proud cleanly demons grow sick of sepulchral semen. The haunting was daunting at first, then worse.
Followed home by fetid forces, by disembodied sighs, down corridors of winking portraits with twinkles in their eyes.
Flattened like a spider against the wall of all desire. Breathless heavy breathing from hairy-palmed demons. The observers who unnerve us, the spectres that spectate, the bones below the surface strain to rise and procreate, these are the hazards of the hobby, the hazards of the plan, live your love-life in the graveyard, take your life into your hands.
Lewd goings-on at the graveyard.
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4. |
Saturate Me
03:27
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Saturate me, open pored, absorbent, I await.
Saturate me. Open-pored, part-formed I wait for providence to fill my plate, the bolt to be drawn from the gate, the universe to make the first move, modify my mind and make me. Saturate me.
Saturate me, build me from the base up. Some binding force affects our course, the heavens swell to fill our pores, and pushing out the doors from inside, wild and open-eyed we're lifting.
Emptiness will cease to be, light replaces levity, purpose, poise and prophecy will pour from empty vessels such as we. Saturate me.
Saturate me.
Though it seems the way is barred, direction's needle darts, the future's dense, hard and unforgiving, forging forwards feels like feeling in the dark.
Emptiness will cease to be, light replaces levity, purpose, poise and prophecy will pour from empty vessels such as we. Saturate me.
Saturate me.
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Matt Stockl UK
Cynical, satirical, lyrical, comical.
Daft songs. Grubby recordings.
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