1. |
Milk Kissers
08:24
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Necks like paddocks of berries.
Cheeks of rank volcanic fields.
Summer tanned hands of milk kissers.
Dairy breath, on deaf boy -
Dancing hands, with milk spoon -
Kissing his milk, repulsively.
Six month anniversary.
I suckle on my knee cap, in celebration.
My first kiss tastes like milk now,
Half a year sour.
'Neath these sheets where many boys,
Lay and dream, and must obey.
Wake up with their lips pursed,
Kiss their milk, night and day.
They put milk aside for me.
I throw it, and I run away
Through all the A3 blood,
Down there, in the gravel -
Repeatedly.
Sometimes I like to take a photograph,
With all the milk kissers
Laughing at me.
Necks like paddocks.
Cheeks of volcanoes.
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2. |
Two Cranes
08:22
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Dusty skin on two cranes,
Beneath the 5 o'clock fruit bowl, of
Mangoes and apples, purples and blues,
Grape coloured shapes and ballet shoes.
My two cranes like extracts of pylons.
Like two lanky siblings, in a kingdom of sandpits.
Portable sisters, yet they are my folks.
My elderly parents all North, and remote.
Who suck it up, and build me my hot pocket home,
Whilst doing their backs in. They are diz-lur-hackti,
They are worker bees and are dislocating their twiggy boned bodies.
They are not criers. They are snappers.
They stand, they don't sit. They spit on the rest.
Billy looks just like her first birthday cake.
They endure the weaklings, champagne tears, and
No! They are not quokkas - they are Ballerinas.
Now snap that back, try it! Snap that titanium spine.
Snap that Ballerina! Snap that Ballerina!
Spin, spin, twist, spin, twist,
Swirl, twist - on the point of your toe.
Snap that impressive Russian. Snap that little tasteless musk stick.
Snap that figurine, Snap that perfected wedding cake icon.
Snap that overwhelmingly featherweight performer.
Snap that lover of long-dead Tchaikovsky.
Snap that skintight, spray-painted, century-old VCR possession.
Snap that Ballerina.
Chase that smug shadow. You know its there.
Give on in - my little ringlet thingy.
Wrench your neck. Wrench your neck!
Forewarn us of the snappery.
And out with the preachers with leaches, on each of our
Musical spinning boxes, where
Pink, little, crystallised lasses indizzinate
You, and me, and Crane - In its little cradle,
Rocking away.
Rocking away.
Snap that dizzy dancer.
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3. |
White Legs
05:14
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White legs on wide highway.
White ibis in Iraqi desert.
The roads of upbringing,
Now as used as band-aids.
Who ditched white legs.
Who smacked white legs.
Who rode my white legs, and
Who made my white legs
Vague.
If in England, it is so cold,
Why would cleaners walk home?
I'm leaving this one vague.
That night was so vague.
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4. |
Thistle
07:38
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I cycle around my death.
Abandonment is abound.
I'm bound to go around and around
It, itself. Its selfish ways
Are mean to me. Anemic
Mickey, he just watches, as is the
Way. Weighing me meanly, whilst I
Tricycle around my death.
[All mine, with this all, and my whistle with Thistle.
With hymenoptera - with it all behind ya, with whistle, Thistle.
With this higher hymenoptera Thistle. With Thistle
Whistling, and tune up my with higher. This is all
My Thistle. This is all my hymenoptera, with this
Thistle. And this with all whistle, this higher, to my
Away hympenoptera. This all, little this Thistle Kid.
Kid].
I cycle around my death, like
Hymenoptera.
Bleeding, I seem to be my
Tone-deaf pillow.
I'm sighing around my life with
Village based nuns.
Bleakly, I go to sleep with
Desmond, and I die.
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Zyklus Perth, Australia
With an array of cross-disciplinary influences, Zyklus aim to achieve a distinctly grey sound, comprised of harsh dissonance, minimal instrumentation, elusive melody, and often violent gestures within the context of notably spacious forms. Lyrically, thematic material can be bleakly evocative, incorporating opaque metaphor, and consistent reference to the cheerless Mundane. ... more
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