1. |
Hex Domestic
03:42
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The kids round here are weird
Try not to look them in the eye.
I revert to type
And dress plain as the pavement to avoid attention.
I’ve got plans this week
Ticket tight inside my hand.
But I won’t leave this street (STUCK!)
Dreaming of the seafront, told you I would be there.
Hex domestic
They call me “Witch, Witch, Witch”
If only if only if only I was.
The kids are throwing things
Keeping me indoors since ’94.
Half-eaten chicken wings
Batter windowpanes ‘til my eyes are bloodshot.
Hex domestic
They call me “Witch, Witch, Witch”
If only if only if only I was.
I was never young
Solemn on the sonogram
Unpermitted fun
I see it all around me, how angry it makes me.
Hex domestic
They call me “Witch, Witch, Witch”
If only if only if only
I was I was I was I was
I am I am I am I am now,
I am now
I am now
Try me!
Now!
Try me!
Now!
- LJ
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2. |
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He has a kind face
(He has a kind face)
With crow’s feet
(Crow’s feet)
That show he found
(That show he must have found)
Something funny once.
(Something funny once)
Frown lines
(And frown lines)
Etched deep.
(Etched deep beneath a centre parting)
His cheeks splintered.
(His cheeks pink with splintered capillaries)
-------------------------------
Cheeky chops, it's really neat,
The Triple Goddess hangs on your street
Whilst you're on vacation,
with the sabbatical goat,
Super-lupine threads,
Up to yer bloody throat.
Oh Cheeky chops, it's really neat,
The Triple Goddess hangs on your street
Until it's time for you,
to disperse plain-hided,
As a hornucopia,
On plastic trays divided,
Sacred to Sirtur,
once it seemed,
You're screwed,
'less you elude,
The Shepherd's dream
You're new, but,
Don’t get consumed,
By the master’s scheme
-------------------------------
He stands smiling beside the rusting bathtub
At the edge of the field.
When you get closer you realise
He reeks of apple cider vinegar
And there are red specks
On his dungarees.
He’s not friendly
When he grabs you
And sprays a cross
On your back.
-------------------------------
Cheeky chops, it's really neat,
The Triple Goddess hangs on your street
You’re a Fairytale in Super Arcadia
You’re looking pale,
Guess you, lost your way (yeah?)
Akkadian Mesopotamia
Archangels, mess up my name
Out Run, in the super arcade
Pac-mania, eat me up
Space Invaders, beam me up
Pole Position, in butcher shop
Game Over, on the chopping block
- LJ / EG
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3. |
Hurricane
02:56
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Sometimes you’re a hurricane baby
Sometimes, you’re a flood
Sometimes you suffocate me, under your sea of dirty mud
Sometimes you’re a flash-fire baby
Sometimes you cut out the lights
When I just, wanna know, if you’ll transpire to me tonight
Send my way lightning forks
From the table of another sky
I’m that pathetic, assumin’ it’s copacetic,
when i missed your eclipse that night
I’m translating your thunderclouds as code
Anticipating your next chess moves
in locusts and toads
- EG
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4. |
Blaming The Weather
06:09
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You grow up being blasted with freezing air daily – on walks to the video shop, or through the poorly glazed window of a school bus that strangely stinks of ham, or in your hiding place behind the janitor’s house where you wait out another breaktime. This permafrost existence forms a habit for life, and you learn to live stooped. Climate affects how we hold ourselves; how we hold ourselves affects everything else. Here, Valentine’s Day is conducted in icy, huddled silence. Funfairs require your body to be wrapped in eight or nine layers of itchy woollen cladding, which restricts your movement to the point of uselessness; your only option to stand quite still and stare at the prizes you can’t win, transparent plastic eggs rotating in a Perspex box as a grotesque 1970s mechanical chicken cackles for coins. A day out to Millport is spent necking scalding-hot tea too fast from a thermal flask, while an elderly couple eye you with suspicion through rain-spattered spectacles, because they never did find out who stole that pen from Tourist Information in 1993. They grew up cold too.
You watch your own breath, in and out.
One July there is a good day, and you watch every adult you know go mad in the sun. An arid trash-strewn wasteland, covered in the exploded remains of the drunken sunburned, whose only crime was to overreach for a little of the birth-right confidence they were told to want, and whose messy failure to achieve it makes them crawl further into their shells.
In your early twenties you twitch the curtains, wondering if you really need to repeat these ingrained mistakes, or if years of slouched shivering and hemming life in can possibly be unlearned. On television a talking dog chatters inanely in shades about a new type of biscuit, and you hate him because he’s better than you.
You switch off, determined now to stop hiding away, to not give in to a life weighed down by thick blankets and bits of old eiderdown and a constant, inexplicable embarrassment. You squint closely into a handheld mirror, and can picture yourself as a presentable extra far in the background of a music video. You are still so young.
You go down the stairs, having to consciously drag your eyes up from the ground, forcing your confused spine into charm-school posture for the first time.
You try to swat away all the usual thoughts, of whether you remembered to switch this or that off, whether you’re carrying your keys, because of course you did and of course you are.
Nothing touches you now, and you are stunned by the notion that there are some people who feel this way all the time, who expect no less.
You turn the key, possessed, and walk out into the new life.
The sun is shining.
A child laughs.
More laughter.
You realise you are still dressed for bed, in decade-old phlegm-yellow sweat-stained long johns that cling to your doomed, overgrown form and bear the faded slogan ‘COME TO MY PAJAMA PARTY’ in a cheerfully wretched font. A hairy toe sticks through a hole you never got fixed.
A gathering crowd of camera-clicks and cruel, delighted shrieks reminds you why you should’ve been kept sealed in your original container.
You hurl yourself homewards through the front door, which closes for good.
- LJ
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Cruel Nature Records Newcastle Upon Tyne, UK
Northumberland (UK) based independent label.
Channelling sonic diversity since 2013
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