The Slick Lagoon - hinterlands, insects, body heat, orgiastic writhing. Distant lights of a Port Lopez night obscured by the steam of semolina as the beasts churn pudding into gravy. This is no standard solemn Liquid Rite, no silent celebration on a Port Lopez afternoon. This is Semolina Liturgy, an Orgy of Beasts. Beyond the sweating palms of seeping trees, a stone’s throw from The Slick Lagoon, the lattice frame of The Pyramid shoots up like moist bamboo. The Empress will have her apotheosis while the wind clatters through the Skeleton Casino. This is no time for the Old Gods and their dice; between The Empress and The Lord of the Near and Nigh, there can be no doubt that this is High Beast Season. Hybrids Gush.

At the core of this ostensibly philosophical piece there beats an unexpectedly tender emotional heart. Soul-searching in its most visceral form. I don’t know what this is.
——
Features Señor Skronk, specifically “Of Course it’s an Antique” from this compendium of sounds: skronk1.bandcamp.com/album/shit-acoustics

Also in there somewhere is a bit of Anson E Phillip’s “I Am Not a Beast”:archive.org/details/AnsonEPhillipIamnotabeast_0
——-
I must reiterate that I don’t know what this is, except that I feel a faint urge to apologise.

The Sentry claws at the sky. He is not acting on orders. Dirty fingers, flecks of spittle strewn across his post. No conspiracy abounds. Blank eyes betray that he follows no agenda. These contortions, these obscenities are not what he is paid for; his every motion is a bestial act.

——

I’d be interested in any thoughts on the mix; I went for a fairly narrow one in the end, but more mixes exist than there are gods in the sky, all spewed out in succession over a period of about 24 hours, several more spacious than this one. I have notions in mind of combining this with guitar or some such exotic beast somewhere down the line, but that isn’t really my area of expertise. Whether this mix is my best or even passable is beyond me at this juncture.

Sinise, make no mistake, is a clear and present danger to us all. Complacency would go beyond mere folly; our children and whatever passes for our children’s children will be enslaved, entombed beneath a veritable Millennium Dome of Sauronic proportions if we, the Cash Cab Generation, fail to act as a matter of urgency. It is our duty as the guardians of this fairly pleasant land to crush and to incinerate the drear, conical eggs that issue even now from the glutinous sac of the engorged Sinise, scarring our beaches like a mocking host of malignant Gormleys and orthodox Hirsts. The time is at hand for us to set aside emotion, to rampage remorselessly, lay waste without clemency, abandon all restraint until each and every egg and cone-like structure is obliterated, reduced to less than nothing. This is no time for sentimental conservation; like smallpox and the dodo before it, Sinise is a pernicious affliction, a perilous danger to all who understand that life on this sphere is a privilege that carries with it certain responsibilities. Let us evict this Sinise at once from the Tower of Taxonomy! 

Sinise, make no mistake, is a clear and present danger to us all. Complacency would go beyond mere folly; our children and whatever passes for our children’s children will be enslaved, entombed beneath a veritable Millennium Dome of Sauronic proportions if we, the Cash Cab Generation, fail to act as a matter of urgency. It is our duty as the guardians of this fairly pleasant land to crush and to incinerate the drear, conical eggs that issue even now from the glutinous sac of the engorged Sinise, scarring our beaches like a mocking host of malignant Gormleys and orthodox Hirsts. The time is at hand for us to set aside emotion, to rampage remorselessly, lay waste without clemency, abandon all restraint until each and every egg and cone-like structure is obliterated, reduced to less than nothing. This is no time for sentimental conservation; like smallpox and the dodo before it, Sinise is a pernicious affliction, a perilous danger to all who understand that life on this sphere is a privilege that carries with it certain responsibilities. Let us evict this Sinise at once from the Tower of Taxonomy! 

Words from a vision c.2010. I intend to return to this (I more than conceivably won’t), but there’s a certain appeal to just hoying it out there in slapdash form.

Many thanks to Moth Lady for vocals and to Skronk for a bit of this:skronk1.bandcamp.com/album/shit-acoustics

———
The plantation fills with tattered shirts
When agriculture’s bones no longer need them.

A ring around a shadow lake,
Arthritic hands of trees
Seize in their last impassive gesture of resistance.

A skeleton says daughter you don’t love me won’t you look at me?
But mummy. I’m hungry. It hurts.
And in the dirt a harvest of the tattered shirts
When bones of agriculture break and yield them.

Featuring Olivia Lopez (more on whom later) and a pianola which I shall credit when I remember which way’s up. I’m getting lost in the archives, what you might call overwhelmed but I never would, so here is a new one. How does the mix sound? I’m finding it difficult to hear it as you might.

As for the content, well, it’s about one of those guys, y’know, who may or may not cast a shadow. Maybe what you see is the shadow; where would that leave us?

A slice of contemporary Wasp. Written in another lifetime down Marchmont way, recorded in the Middle of a Dream. Good advice can be indistinguishable from commands. As good a place as any to shun picking up where we left off some four or so years ago, although the coda is classically waspish. Features the remnants of ‘The Malay’, 1926, by Edwin Jahrl and John Lager. Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been here for years.