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Dave Migman and Spleen Erebus - Organ Seer

by Dave Migman and Spleen Erebus

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1.
Morning Rose 11:59
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.
2.
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 history it congeals in jellied clots about your tongue and in conjunction with the council of the planets your picture is complete and ricocheted off every stranger anecdotal sound bites like trails of sweeties 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
3.
Horned 04:47
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
4.
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 cracks 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.
5.
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
6.
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.
7.
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
8.

credits

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.

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SaKaC / Spleen / Erebus / RA Serbia

My music is 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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