1. |
Along The Dew
04:22
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A solid thud his body made upon the snowy ground. The noise reverberated through the trees and along banks, drawing the attention of the creatures that reside. They peered from behind the bark and saw him crawling through the sleet trying desperately to find his feet. Without fear, and vengeful, they sought their upset prey. A dappled crew began to descend. The warmth of his blood rose through the freezing air near where the crows were waiting...
His cries fell on deaf ears. His struggles were inane. His feathered honours lay strewn along the dew. Decades it had taken him to gather those awards. A tail for each of his victims; now just ironic ornaments that decorate this gory scene. Without fear, and vengeful, they sought their upset prey. A dappled crew began to descend. The warmth of his blood rose through the freezing air near where the crows were waiting...
Bloodied and ruthless they circled and struck with widened eyes. One assailant could be seen wandering away from the melee towards the trees. The sunlight broke and glistened on his trophy; a claret covered brass between his teeth. The warmth of his blood rose through the freezing air near where the crows were waiting...
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2. |
Thrissell Street
01:47
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Still half asleep. ‘At least the weathers nice’, I drone implausibly. A shallow tone that longs for the comatose from which I just awoke, where all of the realities that plague and torture me are kept safely at bay. No such luck. These eyes are wide-awake, this brain just will not stop tormenting, circumventing. Slowly losing the fucking plot. My legs drag me insipidly to the edge of Thrissell Street, where I take my common seat and rue every single fucking decision. Hair clenched, neck tensed, teeth pressing down. Anxiety decisively takes over everything and leaves me alone tapping my feet to that same old beat.
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3. |
Turncoat
02:05
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I scrub up quite well so it would seem. I told the lady at the counter that the suit was for a wedding. This made me giggle later whilst stood in the dock, lying through my teeth. An act for which I cannot apologise given the scum that put me there. They were shrewdly decked out in buttons and stripes. The back-scratch society was in full swing. Lying through my teeth, shirt out, hands in pockets. My favourite bit was when he complained that this had left him deeply distressed. Tell it to your prisoners and exiles. We’ll see how much pity you get. A fucking grass. Destroyer of lives. His tail between legs. Me, Jon and Glenn laughed the whole fucking way home (Fuck the UKBA).
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4. |
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Spun out, anaesthetised, waiting for the gloom to set. Brown bottles fill the grubby floor next to the bodies that exhale in unison. I wipe my eyes so I can see; though bloodshot and blurry they still beam. These aches and pains are brief but they can't shape what we have seen. Running low on fumes, but high on speed, we load in and back out hoping somehow we could move on forever and not reach the end. We say bye to our new friends who’ve restored our faith simply by giving a fuck. Then it’s on to the next one where it's more of the same; determination, resolution, grit, and there was me thinking we were dead and gone. I guess I was wrong. Though worn out and weary we’d rather be stuck in this tin can than doing something we couldn’t care less about and wasting time button bashing, metal bending, changing barrels, crushing limes. Set it up. Roll it out... Inspired, we ride on ‘all through the night’. Zeke blaring loudly with no end in sight. Armed with new found resolve. Stirred with fury and rage. Determined, without remorse for tyrant or foe, the dealers of hate. Headache subsided, eyes clearing up. Load in avoided, what a stroke of luck. And when asked about it there aint much to say. I guess you had to be there to find it all funny. Running. Fuming.
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5. |
Deep Rooted
03:01
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What was once so intimidating now seems so fucking puerile. Faces are masked; concealed by the shame. Voices are dubbed; styled to fit. I can see it unfolding right in front of my shoddy eyes like some sort of surreal stage play where every sentence is easily forecast. An agonizing slow motion replay. It’s almost as if I’d seen it before or were able to move the pieces myself. It’s freaking me out. Fuck this, I’m off… Wait! What’s going on? I can’t seem to move. The effigies unwittingly repeat themselves and re-trace their fate, over and over. Draped in their colours and chanting their favourites. Unaware, minus bliss. They can’t hear me screaming. Agitated. Disconcerted. Forced to view… Help me! I have to get out of this seat. Can’t watch any more so I wriggle and fidget. I push with my hands and shove with my feet, but I’m stuck. Deep rooted.
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6. |
Omission
03:40
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Roll in the pump trucks. Lay down the carpets, screw in the bulbs. Roll in the forklifts. Tape down the edges, paint over cracks. “Attention please! Attention please! A bright red Mercedes is blocking the road. Would the owner please contact a member of staff?” Tie neatly fastened. Plant pots in place. A conniving smile begins to rise all over his face as he neatly lays down the brochures. “Attention please! Attention please! Ladies and Gentleman, the arms fair is about to begin”. Send in the scumbags. Let them flick through the gloss. The newest edition with one key omission; they seem to have left out the images of kids holding guns, of cities on fire & mothers in tears. They must have forgotten to put them in next to the graphs and diagrams.
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7. |
Fragments
02:30
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The bile. I can smell it from here, emanating from that hole in your face. The same one you use to denigrate anyone that fails to use the right words at the right time. The same one that runs whenever it gets the chance to argue the toss. That's 'coin' not 'wank', before you begin... Determined to fragment, just to gall at the mess. A voyeur of distress, hell-bent to impress others of ilk at their patronizing best. Lest we forget who's running this shit show from up on a horse so high I can barely make out the silver spoon that's been jammed inside your mouth. Let it all out. Deflectors of shame, shepherds of blame. Let it all out. Don't forget to close the door on your way out.
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8. |
Chalk & Flint
02:56
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Stand firm. Don't wilt. No faces. No names. No Pasaran! I feel a mixture of anger and sorrow for my foolish foes. I can see them through the cracks; sun bouncing off their skulls, chants drowning out the seagulls. Nylon streams of made up crests held so tightly to their chests. Flags held aloft in front of the pier; no fear. A sorry sight to behold, they could have been stood next to any one of us. They could have fallen on either side of the line but that basic desire to belong to something, anything, takes hold no matter how absurd, farcical, vile… Just along from the iconic cliffs that are made up of chalk and flint, run the bigots. I can see their flags being pulled out from their hands. No Pasaran!
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9. |
Luciano Ponzetto
00:36
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I like to think that that on his way down Luciano Ponzetto had one final reflection on what he had done, and had accepted what was to come; all of the way down to the ground. But somehow I doubt it. A wry smile rose across my face as I turned the page. The prick had it coming, of that there's no doubt. All the way down to the fucking ground.
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10. |
Llygaid Gwyrdd
01:08
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Diw'r glaswellt ddim yn aml gwyrdd ar yr ochr arrall, ond dyma fi dal yn ceisio. Rhedeg dros y llwybr unwaith eto, ond i darganfod fod yr un lliw sydd yna. Beth arall i disgwyl ond yr un canlyniad? Yr un camgymeriad drosodd a ddrosodd.
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11. |
Trapped
03:53
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We sat huddled near the top of the staircase and exchanged worried expressions. We'd been here before. Just sit tight and breathe. I lean forward so my hands could cup his ears to muffle the screams. It’s no use. Their voices continued to rise; one hostile, one out of fear. There was fuck all we could do. The front door too far to reach, the landline was out of sight. His tiny fingers grasped hold of mine and then he looked me in the eye and asked “why is she crying?” A vase smashed against the wall. A body thrown against the door. You can never know for sure when all this becomes the norm. When you're lips are sealed out of shame and fear and you can’t fight back tears. When you can't begin to help the ones you love because you're scared to interfere. When you're praying that someone else will somehow hear. These lurid thoughts maintain the scars, but now that my hands are no longer trembling or small I'd like to see that prick once more. Retribution would be swift. The hand that fed will soon be bit. How many of these walls are hiding similar scenes? Violence? Distress? How many of these faces are masking what they have seen, and can't forget? Freedom peace & love are kept at bay until the built up rage begins to fade. I'll get there some day. We'll arrive some day.
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Grand Collapse Bristol, UK
Calvin (vox)
Jon (guits)
Glenn (drums)
Blag (bass)
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