Dave Migman and Spleen Erebus - Organ Seer

by Dave Migman and Spleen Erebus

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released May 5, 2014

Album music - Spleen Erebus
Words and art - D.Migman

All music and art hexed by artists...
in other words appreciate it, don't rip it off...
otherwise bad ju-ju coming in ya dreams bubba!

A Seeping Eye Production for Splitting Sounds Records.



all rights reserved


Spleen Serbia

Spleen is music coming from the most secret and dark part of our soul that cannot be seen with the eyes - our primal nature! Dark ambient, experimental, drone musick is conjuring the occult hidden spheres of myself representing complete freedom when viewed from the highest plane of thought. Spleen is escape from the suffering of this world through aesthetic enjoyment, rejecting my humanity. ... more

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Track Name: Morning Rose
The Morning Rose

there is an intellectual squall
that eddies around the same pond
it is self enclosed
self perpetuating
we are not allowed
to get our feet wet

the legacy of history is our brutality.
And here is a quick flash – a medieval court,
where vassal and courtiers adopt the language of etiquette,
a parlance of higher order.

return to their grim fasts, to descend into butchery
they feel their right, their duty to perform.

The towers rang with screams
in church they bemoaned their sins
and were granted forgiveness
and composed poesies in their studies.

Look to Rome, the Evidence stands

despite the sadistic dreams of barons
bereft of nobility, or the stations
of compromise
despite the conspiracies of Now
counting out each primed seed

No system can be so perfect, no
Empire is set to rule forever
The motions of perpetuity
Confound such earthly dreams
As do dreams of tyrannical children
With dollar signs for hearts
Who ration entry to their little
Boys' clubs, attempting to hide
The squalor of their design
Behind myth and symbolic regalia
(Chinese whispers for the lower
echelons, to think they in
and on the rise).

how can we ever reach out
beyond the grasp of ourselves
if our spirits are shackled
by the poverty of language
or religion, or the selfish
sightless drives of the covens
of our peers, lords and ladies
blood rancid with heritage
foundations made of bones

the doom of the world
hot on their breaths

when the world is a graveyard
their mausoleums of temples
and caskets filled with produce
the clones are happy at prayer
plastic rosary beads made
in China, candid libations
of child fucking priests
as callous and corrupt
as any Gilles De Rais

how many end times, 9-11s
departmental conspiracies
lizard men, falling down
prohibitions, dictators, regime
changes, black sullen evenings
of hurtled silence
how many one night stands
hungry relationships, strong
jealous hearted, burning
longing, losing, falling
like powdery snow

how many deaths squads
Escobar, kamikazes
Cameras, scandals, hopeless
Trends of consumers fashion
Before, before
We begin again?

Nature will beat us around the ring
She will fold us, compact us
into a grimy strata
across a sightless cliff
pounded by oceans
teaming with life.

have you listened to the sun?
have you danced to the moon?
Have you gasped at the chaos
Of it all?

Have you heard Timothy’s ghost
Laughing in the machine?

I do not pretend to understand the wind
How it moves me, how I am surrendered,
Sundered, betrayed, vilified, exulted to rise,
Collected regrets cast away, the expectations
Of every little sigh, your flighty laughter

The porous minds of brothers and sisters
The deluge contained in each raindrop
The essence shifts, contextual chameleons:
Truth is in essence an unobtainable hunger
In our foolish breasts, filling our thoughts
Our books blemished with truth, as though
To expel the idea in abstract words and bind it to
The page deems it ‘true’

Do not pretend to know the rain
Or the dust that glitters on the moon
Or the flowers bursting through skulls
Or the way, when his last breath left
The old man was a husk cast in cold mud
Jaundiced, lifeless and empty
And the birds still sang outside the window
The grey skies still fill within you.
Track Name: Stabs At Hope
Stabs at Hope

everyone got a print out with
dates, under achievements dressed up
as, chance would be a fine thing
a business card to stack in a drawer
a name, a number, the tiny shot
to knock at the front door
our little stabs at hope
when the river runs black
a tumultuous refrain
that jiggles every wave of your being
in discourse with discord
we are hunks of meat, set on rails
paddling toward the mincer
kidding ourselves on with books of god
when every gluon
every electron, klaxon
wave or point
shivers with indifference
lost in the movement of another score
way beyond
I say this in light parting
As we glance shoulders
After you kicked my feet from under me
I say this in joy
I laugh
All the way down

it advances in fits, not some slow, prolonged process, not the complete serenity or
calmness, it comes in the immediate, instantaneous turmoil propagated by extremes.
One cannot exist without the other, chaos or order, these fixed polarities, stream
throug h our daily lives like radio waves. Evolution takes the form of mutation, neurosis,
events transpire to push an organism to its limits and something vital is altered.. this
construct occurs at the macro level, to the micro, through and through, the dilemma s of
cells, the trials of ants, the universe itself. The periods of calm should be seen as
recovery time, takes a while to get over the trauma of genetic evolution and even at a
psychological level (collective or otherwise) knowledge and insight is often earned
through enduring climatic events. The death in a family, to the psyche of various
peoples post WWII.
It’s better to realise this, to arm yourself with such knowledge, the universe is not rosy,
not all positive, not loving or caring. It is arbitrary, it does not care because such
concepts are banal to a whirlwind of energy, waves or whatever. The Higg’s boson
does not care for universe full of love. (Ah, but you are getting pissed at me – but this is
because you are getting hung up on banal concepts such as love – and perhaps too
much love in the multiverse would be a Bad thing, maybe it would have an inverse
effect – perhaps a placid happy universe would be a regressive place inhabited by Lego
people with the same fixed smile! Perhaps in such a universe the meaning of love itself
would loose all power, perhaps in that type love would become a bad thing, in essence
just a word to which you blink and nod your little yellow head – there again I am
unfairly picking on the abstract of LOVE – to which you cling).

ah, you little star
the universe pivots
about your centre
you demand their eyes
their hearts
their candour (?)
little star
limitless on nice
until you go under
the veneer of your solder
little star, your order
the dictates you serve over
threat or judgment
from your cell of hives
the itch you cannot surrender.
you collate the fiction of your
it congeals in jellied clots about your
and in conjunction with the council of
the planets
your picture is complete
ricocheted off every stranger
anecdotal sound bites like trails of
left to snare children
to your gummy heart
Of over wrought niceties
-all the stage
is yours

they say that history is loaded
the gentlemen were loaded
the lords and ladies lorded
peasant skulls filled their larders
salted wounds bound their laughter
the victor’s history proved their lacquer
a lackadaisical lactation
for history’s fucked mead
empirical evidence in
mountains of bones
and ruins and tombs
the songs of the damned
scratched into glass
unearth the real
luminary construct
Track Name: Horned

the engine growls, all night, all day
in the inner mind, night, day
I gather my spears, I wish to
Set out, because youth is done
But I am hungry, the distant hills
Are blazing, bruised, (ephemeral)


there is a box in the night
hidden in an overgrown garden
pregnant pods of fuchsias reign there
ruddy beads swelling the darkness
everything is still there

in the box another night
a pool for you to fall in
a mode of transition
breath to a gasp
the starlit shudder
no more than this
Track Name: The Beast Machine
The Beast Machine

Spirals, hexes, machinations of the infinite blood mind
(throat full of spines and packs of sweetheart wolves)
decorate these city streets with sad blooms
these patterns seep through the substructure
and fissures runic predictions in a tongue few decipher
but if you peel back a slab there are wires, pipes, clock
cog wheels and through these veins the beast intones its wants
and the ants obey. At night the beast’s eyes patrol in cars,
they loiter on corners, they tear each others throats
(enlist FEAR to keep the cloned ants in their dens).
Patterns swirl oily puddles in a back street where square chested
guardians wait with gaping mouths to consume the corrupted
(old bits, mould bits, broken, wrecked, a plastic bag full
of punctured heads) offerings to back yard gods whose acolytes
are living wrongs and the reflections of the universe swirl
in a puddle of filth, a portal of wrongs,beautiful and toxic
(you really wouldn’t want to drink that).
Archway legs, shadows filled with the old drunk’s snores cut like saws
shifts in dreamless slumber as his breakfast rolls away.
Fused in betrayal couples in the park plant dreams into the febrile earth
for nightmare trees to grow beneath the poisoned sky. The eyes are roving,
chasing the lovers before the tide of curfew when the streets are chocka
with the strangulated chants driven to a frenzy by the beast
driven into a bloodlust for the beast.

Tales of lust and perjury, billboard platitudes for the ant hoards happiness –
a new pair of shoes and a look to fall into to (the sky is upside down it shall
swallow you) deep into shallow. Flicker box dictation, no more bible than bile
bull but you can fix a cross across old wounds to suit and close your eyes to the
machine beast's howl (of delight in dreams hear his sick chuckle, gurgle of sewers,
a crisp packet trapped on a clothes line). In the core of him, the black heart;
cyclops god of commerce glares from shining towers, psychic enunciators
dispel the crowds of those awoken and intone the brutal law of need/it’s ours
(hands off!). but down, get subterranean gloom in a labyrinth of mazes, the core
of him deep within. A rotting mass of laughing faces choking tubes
and wires part machine
and teeth.
Track Name: These Epithaps Of My Monkey Chores
These Epitaphs Of My Monkey Chores

these are the epitaphs of my monkey chores
the bombast of some ‘pinstripe’ worthy
or you low down there on the kerb
crouched beneath a reeking blanket
looking sorry for your worth

pauper, porter, pioneer – all are searching
all searching
clarity from clutter
The elevation of security
for a few tokens more

Attempting to interpret
The barrage of information
The acolytes of experience
Are starved within their station
By the bondage of information

Bored in our finery
Hiding behind games
that never fulfil
gnawing empties that jingle
At the root of our cores

The inadequacy of escapist words
are they redeemed through action?
Mishima and the Seppuku blade
Pressed against the finite spot
The deed done or the words he left behind?

every knuckle black cobble
represents some broken dream
a splash of colours
a sinking sun or
sodium street light
I have been right, wrong
Shamed, ashamed, elevated
But tonight I count
The cobbles, pooled
In bloody light
Track Name: When The Pylons Fell Redundant
When The Pylons Were Redundant

we stare out from the wreckage of our homes. we had little anyway, but oh, how we crave those simple things, like hot water from a tap. like garbage collections on a rainy day.

how we weep. how we miss our televisions, our music. yesterday Todd played the CD for the last time and then the batteries died. we walked back to our shells feeling like part of our soul had died. we need new music, sure we do, but the anger is gone and what good is music without passion… all we have are sad songs. as heart rending as the sun setting over horizons of twisted metal.

mother is gone to take water from the seeping pipe, daddy is scavenging out by the tip. we collect the shining remnants from the ruins; we tie crisp bags to branches and hope the leaves will come again one day.

where are the pious men all gone? did they slink to hidden bunkers? there are many, many rumours. our fear is a coiled snake basking in the sun… our hope like eels beached in irradiated muck. the rain no longer comes. the sky is red, the blood turned the earth purple.

where are the lyrics gone? all those hopeful songs, all those pious heroes, those righteous preachers? where is the god of Temples? does he hide in the ruins of the steeple? there are many rumours. the sick wind whispers. we hear echoes of extinction, their voices sing sorrowfully through the abandoned wires and uprooted telephone trees. the pylon is no longer relevant. It is a redundant tree. at night the mosquito clouds lull us to sleep. dreams of palaces, of television and ease.
Track Name: The Cloak Of Eyes
The cloak of eyes

I was plundering some others’ dreams
Tied in knots and counting screams

Hard cash through the fingers fled
Cast down in the febrile net

Out of the void I heard a voice
by rising to follow I made my choice

“curse the tongue that lashes mind
curse the ‘point’ we seek to find
damn all laws and curse their keepers”
but then the dream wind took me deeper

sucked me down to a montage scene
streets and buildings I’d once been
where characters from childhood days
would stop to tell me how they’d aged

they took me toward a little square
a silent host was gathered there
in the centre she stood apart
a glance at her stalled my heart

gathered round her shoulders a cloak of eyes
That rolled, blinked and looked surprised
Her hair was like raven wings unravelled
By her side two swords hung parallel
One, bronze, pointed to ground
The other, brass, was reversed around

She smiled at me like a lover might
Wasn’t the first she’d blessed my sight
But the crowd pulled around me as I moved
The goddess determined to still allude
So that when I pushed into the centre
She was gone, but I could sense her.

Then into the labyrinth I stumbled
Passageways so old they humbled
Alone I trod stairs and grim corridors
Into halls filled with stony warriors

And at my back a presence was felt
I refused to let my will power melt
A chill that settled on the shoulder
Something whispered “you’re getting older”
On I ran past empty classrooms
Every desk ranged like silent tombs

Then on a shoreline, I stood
On a plinth of rock over the flood
Barnacles crunched beneath my feet
And the deadly swell looked so sleek

The waves rose and I thought to swim
Until through the black waves broke a fin
But turning round I spied fresh land
I fell across the whispering sand

There she stood, she rose above me
her gown of eyes blinked in revery
with long claws she plucked me up
held me to her lips to sup
the dark wine of the midnight hour
a juice that was both sweet and sour

then everything around me span
I convulsed and toppled from her hands
to lie there gasping on black sands
while around me the goddess danced

"Now the dreamer to me is wed
and every night my hunger fed
for every time you fall asleep
I will wait amongst your dreams"

and as I woke in twisted sheets
her laughter to me still reached
the terrible realisation came
that every dream would be her gain