1. |
Hangover for Atlas
05:01
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Sauntering with the world held in empty
Pockets which couldn’t hold the marbles;
Now we’ve converted our wonders with numbers
We’re reaching capacity for marvels
The people on the street are murmuring
To their sense of spirit
There are psychopomps in charge of our Utopian
History, to render Atlas illicit.
We are now more likely to be wrong
Than ever, than ever, than ever before
The Underworld has its terror now
Statues have become wracked in their own wrath;
Oh what a burden for you Atlas, you’re
Spewing observant part-time sociopaths.
The messengers have all left and gotten Vans,
Leaving the Holy Ghost behind.
My Trumpet harks to a sombre tune, but
The Bugles will all be laughing in the end.
We are now more likely to be wrong
Than ever, than ever, than ever before...
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2. |
(Countdown to Shutdown)
01:25
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-none-
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3. |
Techninature
04:08
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-none-
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4. |
Selfie Soul
02:15
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Whose sin is it?
To capture your own soul
And try to develop it
In the negative
Whose sin is it?
To capture your own soul
And try to develop it
In the negative
Superstitions theorised
To be captured in the eyes
Of a camera would keep you
Frozen in perpetual
State. I guess they were right
If I can’t look in the mirror
Without seeing a pose; at night
My image is a conditional fear.
Whose sin is it?
To capture your own soul
And try to develop it
In the negative
Whose sin is it?
To capture your own soul
And try to develop it
In the negative
Searching for a positive
For seven deadly shots at a time;
These sore eyes can’t the sight
Of an image that is mine
Alone. So I share my soul in pieces,
And what I can question decreases.
Why am I, I say on my knees,
Prisoner to the masterpieces?
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5. |
Bolt Cutter
04:15
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I can’t get in can’t get in
Can’t get into the sound
That’s butting in and cutting up and twisting me round;
I’m trying to listen as I sink to the ground
But in the mess of the mesh I can’t hear enough
There must’ve been must’ve been
Must have been a way
To hear what’s being said while having a say,
But the pressure of the chambers is crushing me…
(Where, where, where’s my Bolt Cutter?)
Just can’t see just can’t see
Just can’t see how it’s right
That the feedback nullifies and overloads us night after night;
This wire is a slicer and it’s starting to bite
I can’t escape can’t escape
Can’t escape the noise
Of the ringing from the climbing
Of cacophonous toys
Don’t tell me that professional fun can cut the life from this one…
(Where’s my Bolt Cutter?)
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6. |
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Hollow! Hollow! I’ll hollow your leader!
For I am inspiring
And I am contagious
I am the discourse of a terminal system.
If you’re coughing up smoke on your timeline
Remember there’s no smoke without a witch hunt;
There’s no smoke without a wickerman.
So I…
Hollow! Hollow! I’ll hollow your leader!
(Maximum Facilitation Arrangement)
Hey! Here’s what you should be thinking:
Believe enough in fear to escape the sinking feeling that we might just survive to have a good time, or at least stay long enough to change your mind to give it all for the one in none and agree there’s always something smaller to be done. You are the needles to the thread in my haystack; reflecting light and deflecting another in attack to contribute to my flaking sense of substance.
We saw it, we shouted, you didn’t sort it. Did you think the terrorists simply resorted to the outside factions, outskirts and cults; did you think you could single them out?
No! They’ve been skulking around in your conscious for hundreds of years feeding off the straw arguments as flame nears the base of your wickerman; no smokeless spark. It’s all going to burn unless you keep us in the dark, coughing up the ink of your searing words, holding up hoops in the Circus of the Absurd.
Hollow! Hollow! I’ll hollow your leader!
(Maximum Facilitation Arrangement)
I will facilitate to the maximum of my ability
But that does not prescribe results…
If you’re coughing up smoke on your timeline
Remember there’s no smoke without a witch hunt;
There’s no smoke without a wickerman!
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