Written by DJ Mandrews on October 23, 2015
the uncanny valley presents:
sugarcubes / nomeansno / sonic youth / bikini kill / fall / lora logic / pixies / prizehog / swans / lemon kittens / danielle dax / tim smith / patti smith / pj harvey / micachu / siouxsie / talking heads
When the sun rises I will not see. I regret nothing, it was worth it. Going through life without a timepiece did pay off. Are you getting what you want? …and are you getting what you need? I’ve heard it said that love is truly sacred, but nowhere is it written that it’s guaranteed. Must have been a dream from a thousand years ago. It’s hard to talk with your [redacted] in my mouth. I will try to scream in pain a little nicer next time. And it’s painless, sitting in subterranea (ancient reference to Mesopotamia)…and it’s quiet again. Hidden fragments surface now, repetitious history, one more time for the record.
Two thousand thirteen Vicksburg Confederate graves are uncovered, throwing new light on this 19th century conflict, sparking off a repeat. These southern spectres were disease ridden, dusty, organic, and psychic. Rebellious mistakes occur again, everything moving in a circular fashion, and it’s quiet again. Hidden fragments surface now, repetitious history, one more time for the record. Our words return in patterns, our minds encapsulating time.
Gregoror, satiated, walking through capitol, stumbles on two thousand dead Thai monks in SS uniforms, then fled to Hotel Bloedel, outside Nuremberg, a long way south, to a reasonable smell of death. And it’s quiet again. Hidden figments surface now, repetitious history, one more time for the record.
Whatever happened to the…and the…..?
And this I know: his teeth as white as snow, what a gas it was to see him! (Irrelevant). Can I cut out the core, and steal the food in your head, and curl my body inside, down where it’s dark and it’s wet? All the real men are fighting for a bucketful of dust. All the real men are singing with bravado, sweat and lust. Time left in my mind for savouring all over the wall, savour my life, savour my feed, savour all of my beasts lifes for keeps, ’till i’m over the wall, over and done, stripped to my tongue, leaving my beasts over the wall, over the all of the alls, and all wishing my wellbeing, though I’ll only die when every car’s an empty thing and nothing’s left, not even in bag filled with hope and my beasts (it crossed my hand).
We shall live again, we shall live again, we shall live again, shake out the ghost dance. I’ll measure time, I’ll measure height, I’ll calculate my birthright. Good Lord I’m big, I’m heading on man-sized, got my leather boots on. Skeletal talk is not the way to turn me into your bird of prey. Grab my things to flood away, you’d have to drink that eighteen times. You can’t eat me, I’m still not dead.
She made up the person she wanted to be, and changed into a new personality. The artist is living in the mirror with the echoes of himself. Even the greatest stars discover themselves in the looking glass.
Here’s that rhythm again. Here’s my shoulder blade. Here’s the sound I made. Here’s the picture I saved.
Here I am.