Waulking Music

Listening to - Spiritchaser - Dead Can Dance

Melange! Now that's a good word for something. I will remember that and keep it for use in something later. I can hear every ancestor shouting in the distance. What spirit can cause someone to do this? This is not a man; it is a bird, a Loon, a Great Northern Diver. That call; its just gets me here. The short night comes to us and the bird is still alone. This cry for a mate has made us all think of how the light is changing. Our eyes do not see things in the same way that they did so many years ago. I see evenings and sinking suns, making shadows long and helpless. Crossing the Corpus Callosum a bass desire for a faultless memory. This twister is so much a pool for deep resonance and sustenance through music. The thoughts are on that bridge, somehow stopped between the two halves of my brain, this little tingling of hope and ecstasy. Yo La Ley Legear. What meaning in so little! The black song, the blank words of the east, the sad songs of those broken places, the big divide that one day may take us all to see who is right. I build nothing in the waves; they knock down everything I try with their blowsy cataracts, their forces of nature and desire. Dim Dacha in the moonlight. See that place? That is where your father took on the whole revolution one snowy day; nearly made it they say but that is where he fell bloody and screaming at the window as the booted ones took him out with little red books. See here is his jacket and there on it, the blood he spilled for us. Don't you think that this is getting needlessly messianic? I am here forever, a black root twisted off and left by the roadside. We are not safe anymore. You must not err on the side of caution or you will end up flattened, crushed and breathless in some firestorm, but spared the long-term evils of the fallout and the radiation sickness. We flattened a china town, turned it to ruins in one night with a thousand planes. This phase is simply simple, a two guitar dream of two tracks against each other to show you how two countries can live together without worrying about the future. How many times have we fought our neighbours? Those triple-generation wars we had with them have left us always suspicious of them and yet we aid each other in the real times of crisis. Those beeps and whistles make me mad. It is too bright now. The afternoons of spring take too much from the sun and leave in flapping like a fish, across my table, glancing off the paper to polarise into faded lasers on the ceiling. This reel and shanty helps me but does not go south in the winter. We sledged over that hill and revealed our nationality, a word I had to think of. Telling me what, the hell to do now! Telling me what, the hell to do now! A Phase or two to help you through. A Phase or two. These words turn into the music, loud in my ears, the edge of pain but at the peak of excitement at how loud something can be and still mean to stop all functions but dancing. This music sounds like obscenity this loud; it is a screw-you shout, the tale of tubs and how to get there through the air and time to ancient history. In the garden I fell over the wall and drunkenly hushed my colleague, my batman, the other soldier in this two-person war against the future. Overly! What a word. Kingsley hated it and so do I. Verb-wise, verbifying; a self-referential word to show the trail of language from that old minstrel to the false laureate we have today. Call yourself a poet man? Keyhole surgery! You there! What's the bleeding time? Keyhole Poetry and verse to die for. So long my friend. The Loon still calls on that mirror lake. It has no time to go before it must leave for southern places, the mate it found as ghost so long ago has lit its way to Oregon. A Loon. A Loon. The guitar speaks.