1. |
The Ship
15:41
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When again will your spirits align in our company?
When the ship, in darkness, arrives at the threshold,
bowing like sands,
whose breath can give permission to strangeness?
Which of our steps infects or finds?
Your pathways are blessed.
The waves crest. Boats roam.
I hear the sound of the wind at my temples,
groping the shore.
The sea gasps; the land respires.
The ship bends in the crossfire like wires.
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2. |
Sights Past
17:16
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I am awake.
Restless and razed.
Breathless and braced.
A stem on the plain.
Bed of no place.
Yolk without name.
Sights of our presence,
mapped and erased.
I’m afraid of the tracks slipping from under me.
I’m ashamed of what has been done to me.
Cleft silver moon.
A past without room.
Song of enduring,
key with no root.
Weight of our aims.
Pumice and wave.
The rest of a question,
bereft in the clay.
I’m afraid of the strength of the family.
I’m ashamed of things that are done to me.
Talk about fucking machines!
I’m ashamed,
but if you’re satisfied, care for that memory.
It’s not the same: the image is broken.
It’s not the same: dead as it’s spoken.
It’s not the same: a network of ocean.
It’s not the same: a terrible pain.
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3. |
Heartbeat (C. Cohen)
05:37
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4. |
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Souls across a fen.
Bound on boundless ‘when’.
Heroes on a jolly outing, spinning our myths.
Simulator of an outside;
witness of a new finding.
Ghosts of old threat tale
roam on handsome trail.
There were reaches of an outcrop humming the wind;
hear the sketching of a shoreline,
whispering: “I will find them.”
Ghosts of ramparts; the whistling green
prairie mount; discoverer’s whet.
Pair of vanguards, a chrysalis each,
sailing out from a black silhouette.
There you are, as a caravel
across a wave, sighing.
**
Up, up, away. Dunes in the grey.
Tall rocks, blank as God.
Strange drivers, driving on.
They wept as the table was set.
Unkempt, empty seat on the far end.
Above mesas, the lightning affixed.
Wind of ambition, howling out.
Two kings.
Apes of ancients lost in the mist of things.
Promontory questions; silence received.
Rivulets moan. The light shrinks towards the sea.
You discoverers. How do you all.
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5. |
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6. |
Third Day of February
02:51
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The river holds its peace,
its sandbags and skeletons.
To pull them from the deep
enmeshes with the benchmarks of our lives.
It tries to know about that.
We say what we will.
The net vibrates and we catch it still.
You take me as you are,
like a stone, rising.
I don’t want to talk about “Hey, sweet
cheeks […] catch you if I can.”
Sieves to a pond.
The riddle of our trust and romance is long.
It’s a runaway.
It’s a vague simulation.
It’s the space where your hand’s been,
fixed to a pulse.
A facsimile of wants of a tongue
in song.
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7. |
Castell
07:01
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Explain in whispers
new directions.
Exclaim your vision:
relent,
impress with all might.
Gigantic body,
we are unmoved.
Expanding village
of wire, to solder and climb.
Real parable.
Thick net of shoulders
to a high mound,
Extending figures begin;
the monument grows.
Our strengths are siphoned
to a wide pool;
the structure shudders
from size; we crackle like fuel.
No you, no I,
to say that our lives face ruin.
There is strength in this moment;
we venture and rise.
From graves and shorelines
come singing strangers.
I felt them towing the line;
they cackled and swayed.
Was it joy or tension,
as the band gave way,
that left me weeping,
devoured,
as the castle unwound?
No you, no I,
to say that it was not true.
So will you ask without answers
as they take hold of you?
**
Leaning in, we coil and pray.
Reaching in, the soil awakes.
As the sun creeps in, with our
heads set low,
as the dust comes in, could you
say that they are not there?
Leaning in, we coil and pray.
Reaching in, our spirits embraced.
As the sun creeps in with our
eyes all closed,
as the dust comes in, could you
say that we are not here?
Leaning in, we coil and pray.
Reaching in, the soil awakes (our spirits embraced).
As the sun creeps in with our
heads set low;
eyes all closed;
lives exposed;
as the dust comes in,
Could you say that they are not there?
Could you say that we are not here?
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8. |
Seam Song
07:46
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I had a dream about this once:
We were in my old house.
How the wind was whistling!
In gales,
that ran like scales,
through the rafters of the building;
a storm of such force
that a willow could be walking,
yeah, that a willow could be walking,
through the long grass outside
and through the black outside—
not like the warm night in my bedroom.
Through it, you and me were whispering
songs of fondness unremembered;
quiet movements that would thaw us
made sure the weather would not swallow us.
Drifting in,
float
away,
drift towards you—
and away
for just a beat too long.
And the silence we had took for awning
encroached our borders without warning
and we sank into oblivion
yeah, we disappeared into that ocean
—and the willows that were walking,
they stopped their ceaseless motion—
and the covers, and our bodies,
silent and unseen,
the skin and the seams,
were the evaporating fiction
of dreams
the evaporating fiction
of dreams—
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9. |
Untitled
02:47
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10. |
Old Threat Tale
04:25
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Pale light, old tome.
A matte black dome.
Waves of excess wash towards home;
rectified and clean,
bathed in excess,
and a wild beacon hung
to set your course to out there.
A still life in an undisclosed room.
The network loom.
A plague of insects attending your wound.
(to grasp at a landscape…)
Plague of excess,
a long prairie poem
to see with your own eyes clear.
Is a map a grasped place
as visions are dimmed?
He disappeared as we touched—
(“it was just to get away…”)
—To your visage of smoke,
your waves of excess,
a quiet bedroom poem
to see with your own eyes clear.
Is a map a pure space
where follies are hemmed?
My lips held still as he choked…
Was it to get away,
as hellfire came running in
where I was sleeping?
Plague of excess.
A wide prairie tomb,
all echoing desire.
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11. |
Body of Worry
03:43
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Morgan is sick to his stomach
—the ulcers have spread—
bedridden, yet ceaselessly waking.
He rambles, he often forgets things,
perilous and exhausted,
a shivering wire in the wind.
Victor’s not clean, not been himself lately:
a payment’s been missed
and his kidneys have kept him from writing.
Fixated, he’s constantly fighting
a catalogue of injustice,
the hints of a song disappearing
in crimson pools.
Joseph’s got tumours from stress and Eliza
is not eating well.
Mel’s trying; Jon’s better, but he still cannot work.
The world conspires to kill us:
the horror of endless folly
tracing a line on our bodies.
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12. |
Abductor
09:59
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Started with a fight; oh, I know,
it always does.
Our neighbourhood was quiet until
they moved in next to us.
I looked across the street, fifteen months:
sudden eruptions
and violet aurora.
At the window on my knees,
I’ve seen miracles through the trees,
ones nobody else believes.
I shout my parents’ names,
and the fires fade to black.
Walking from the park, late one night,
the streetlights were switched off,
and coming out the dark—oh, God—
the colours and tremors kicked off.
A tongue of ancient tome, fifteen rainbows!
I took a deep breath
and crept towards the window…
A man incanted old blues.
The television blew a fuse.
Objects orbited the room,
and a levitating woman
warbled aphorisms.
**
Helpless and distant, we fell apart…
You made so many mistakes,
but I don’t hate you for them—
The heart is a code unstuck,
closing its messages
from the speaker,
two vaults without readers.
—denying what I witnessed, but I know,
unsure of myself, unto you I projected my ailment!
You can’t understand
what it’s like to be me,
to live in the shadows
of the house with the floating machines.
No, they never believed me,
and neither did you.
**
Amongst the pine trees,
you took uncertainty and you made it pain relief.
You did that for me.
I told you everything;
you swam to fix it, but ran out of air to breathe.
Oh, you never believed me, but I know
that you wanted to.
**
As sure as anything I know,
there’s no antidote.
At my windowsill fifteen years
cause they made that TV float.
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13. |
Cast
03:43
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“That way. Away.”
Sealed in an ocean,
shrinking for days.
Your unmade mistakes
(like unfolding rooms).
“A hotline if you’re lonesome?”
A stiffened finger sends you northwards.
Your simple fate; their escape.
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14. |
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I,
in the arms of a past,
with a book in the grass,
an outline close to thinking
and close to vanishing
the weight of staggering time to come;
though a vacuous sin
to wish seasons condemned,
so still and endless
is the melody in a voice
that is not saying “no”,
but is bowed in a pause;
it is a different question
of a memory yet to start,
of just trying to thaw
with the motion of light
in a speaking thought
tonight.
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15. |
Untitled
01:55
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16. |
What Dust Is
11:44
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They are together in a small brown bed.
One takes the other by the arm and asks what dust is.
The slow hum of moving traffic
outside, and the sun stretching in through a mirror-frame
gives pause to a silly question.
And the other sits up, looks beside them and laughs,
as light passes over their skin
through a line of patient motorists in their mists.
Their bodies are just like seashells,
and the trees on the street sound just like the sea,
and one just about spots, in the beams,
floating in, the rough specks of the heavy day.
**
We are living at a distance. The right-now
coils in the glow and licks its fur,
and behind-it is unthreading; beyond
the spotlights, the threads run, into the soil to wait for us.
It’s night now, the other is sleeping.
Couples leave restaurants, roll their cigarettes.
One is looking, hears but barely
sees; is following something, that’s flowing underneath.
Now one shrieks and clasps at the dark
and the land speaks. The other wakes now, turns towards the
commotion; one is groping the ground, tracing
an outline, through the thick silhouette of daylight, traced topographic
airs; stream of old embers, now heading
backwards, to the roots of our years, then climbing—
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Kiran Leonard England, UK
Click the link for discog (strands) guide
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