1. |
||||
|
Seeping out of cold beds, of strangers,
of the blinking lights of long form danger,
we plant the seeds for things
we know will never grow.
You can’t count on your hands.
You can’t count on old roads.
You can’t count on yourself.
I’m counting out loud the stones
I’ve never thrown
through
the glass houses of distant neighbours.
Distemper. Disrupter. Disentangle.
Keep your god damned hands out of my eyes.
I can’t count on my hands.
I can’t count on old roads.
I can’t count on myself or my distaste for
counting cracks in paths to nowhere.
I’ll show you pictures of my bones.
When it’s winter turn me over
and over and over and over
and bring me inside with you.
I'll show you pictures of my bones.
I can’t count on my hands.
I can’t count on old roads.
I can’t count on myself or my distaste for
counting cracks in paths to nowhere
to soothe my failing senses.
I’ll show you pictures of my bones.
|
||||
2. |
Lavignia Falls
07:20
|
|||
|
We’re laying flowers 'round the dying tree again.
Another light is out.
Another sleight of hand brings us ‘round.
The countless fall and are scattered and buried.
The ground is wrong, and it’s taken us from miles away.
When Lavignia Falls from the dying tree, it ends.
They’ll cut it down and count the rings,
and count the dead.
The countless fall and are scattered and buried.
The ground is wrong, and it’s taken us from miles away.
When Lavignia Falls from the dying tree, it ends.
They’ll cut it down and count the rings,
and count the dead.
We pass the sun around again.
|
||||
3. |
Pretend I'm Dead
09:05
|
|||
|
I, in sideways strides,
I half embrace what's been coded and erased.
Enchanted, cryptic hallways made
out of swollen casts in pairs.
Filled with ribbon and always paid
by stolen masks who stare.
I let myself be purged of everything.
I stopped to talk to the water's edge.
My love might have been sore with me,
so I pretend I'm dead.
A pregnant pause, mistrusted thoughts,
intrinsic laws made to define.
A stagnant cause holds out its claws
to the thinnest strands of you and I.
My love might have been sore with me
so I pretend I'm dead.
You carry such grand knives
and you know how to wield them.
You apologise; guilty, soft, and crazy,
but I know where the faults lie.
Sore with me, so I pretend I'm dead.
|
||||
4. |
Merriment Abounds
06:54
|
|||
|
Merriment abounds as we malcontents
are put to flame, and are kept between
these windowless walls.
Peel the paint back.
Claw at the leather.
Make your way back.
Rub right right through the pleasure.
Unaware of the ground or the space you’re in,
you are far away, and kept between
these windowless walls.
Make your way back.
Rub right through the pleasure.
Peel the paint back.
Claw at the leather.
And from the comfort of my home
I marvel at the weight of your pulsar heart,
and I can’t help but wonder,
how you don’t fall, are you not harmed,
and is this not where they depart,
and is it all a part of a larger problem?
Merriment abounds as we malcontents
are put to flame, and kept between
these windowless walls.
|
||||
5. |
Nine Kinds of Time
08:04
|
|||
|
I’ve fashioned this mountain, but I can’t climb.
I am the fountain from which we all drink and die.
I am the window, and I am the blind.
I am painted into portraits of such grand knives,
but it’s a trick of the light.
You can slip through if the wind is just right.
You don’t exist.
You are the lie we tell our shadows in the night,
and you’re quick to take flight.
We watch you drift through nine kinds of time.
We don’t exist.
We are home to flies.
We watch it all dissolve
into nine kinds of time.
And this changes everything.
We sleep through the day,
then we rise and are broken
o’er the backs of our reflections.
I have slipped beyond the summit, but I can’t fly.
I am the foundling, lost again into the night.
I am the window through which we all deny
there ever were such valleys or such splendid heights.
We are a trick of the light,
and you can slip through when the wind is just right.
I don’t exist.
I am made to dine upon
the ruins of our fortunes,
stretched across nine kinds of time.
This changes everything.
|
||||
6. |
Seasick
08:48
|
|||
|
On my tongue is a name that I cannot quite hear,
as I come to, bewildered, but given to rise
when the light comes in.
Like sifting through a bag full of knives for a crown,
it’s been so long that I can’t tell which face is mine.
The widow comes down to confess,
and says, “my blood is diamonds.
The Door is on fire
and you’re on the wrong side.”
Like riddles we are hanging and adorned
in countless tiny flames.
She’s dropping stones into sweetmilks,
then stitching into ribbon
the balance of having been wont to succumb
to the will and the reach of the fire in the face
of the man in the old hollow sun.
The mountain comes down to confess,
and says “My blood is diamonds.
We all came in through the same hole,
and we all sleep in the same bed."
I pull a stone from the ground
and fix it to the wind, having seen them
haunt and belong to the well, out of reach.
It’s gone cold, and I am glad.
The world changes shape and disguise,
and we wait for the taste to dissolve into nothing.
I open the jar
and dead moths fly out.
I fall out of painted holes
and we laugh and we laugh,
until the both of us are seasick
and we up sticks and ride.
We’re under a black spell again.
I pull the same stone out of the ground again,
and fix it to the wind,
having been to the gallows where portions
are sewn into uneven rows.
We’re under a black spell again.
|
||||
7. |
Wax
17:57
|
|||
|
Stitch me into the abyss, and help me close mine eyes.
Tell me where I’ve been, and how to stay upright.
Fasten your hands over my mouth, and push down a river of time.
Pull me back out of the light,
and into the dismal embrace of the ever rising flood
I reach into the sky and set fire to my reflection.
I reach into the distance and set fire to our good intentions.
We enter into and empty your tomb, by the light of our own wilted flame.
You pour out and over the fountain, over the wall, out of the light.
I slip between the suns,
I am stretched over the abyss and am forsaking the soft sea,
by the weight of my own drowning eyes.
Stagnant and humble is the river, seeping into the well.
I have fallen into the embrace of the ever rising flood.
I reach out of the staggering depths of loss,
and loose myself upon these half healed wounds.
I enter into and empty your tomb
by the light of my own weathered eyes.
Stagnant and humble is the river, seeping into the well.
I fall into the embrace of the ever rising flood.
You pour out and over the fountain, over the wall, out of the light.
I bear pall, and drop my heart into the holes we dig forever.
In our mourning we are old as the whimsical and sundered.
Take these sodden stones and place them ‘round your home.
Take them when you go.
Stagnant and humble is the river, seeping into the well.
I am lost in someone else’s sky,
where I am survived by the ever rising, blackened flood.
|
||||
If you like Uncle Woe, you may also like:
supported by 103 fans who also own “Pennyfold Haberdashery & Abattoir Deluxe”
Merci Déhà for the download code. Lots of bands use these ingredients – pretty female vocals over doomy guitars always sounds good, but usually that's where the ideas run out. That isn't the case here. Each song is packed with ideas and evolutions, genres and references it's boring to list but not at all to listen to. A pleasure to have been introduced to this.
go to album
The Swamp Records Sampler
by The Swamp Records
supported by 99 fans who also own “Pennyfold Haberdashery & Abattoir Deluxe”
Brilliant sampler from Swamp Records, with an unbelievable breadth of styles and artists. Grab a free code on the page while you can, you won't regret it!
go to album
supported by 97 fans who also own “Pennyfold Haberdashery & Abattoir Deluxe”
Dirty, fuzzy, grinding blues. Brings to mind The Scientists of the early ‘80’s, Love it!!
go to album
Weedian presents a 56-track chronicle of Mexico's stoner metal and heavy psych scenes, from ’90s forefathers to contemporary wrecking crews.
go to album
featured on Bandcamp Radio Feb 4, 2022
go to album
Obsession Destruction
by Chained to the Bottom of the Ocean
featured on Bandcamp Radio May 12, 2023
go to album
supported by 92 fans who also own “Pennyfold Haberdashery & Abattoir Deluxe”
“Bless the Maker and His water. Bless the coming and going of Him. May His passage cleanse the world. May He keep the world for His people.”
go to album
