1. |
Wild-Eyed Hounds
06:34
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Young persons tromping my green garden!
White knuckles uncurling, unleashing wild-eyed hounds.
Pretty blonde bank clerk miscounting!
Sharp quill to paper, writing 'til she's been sacked.
Hackney horse finds every pothole!
Cut-purse takes half a crown to cut from the fetlock down.
Paid the newspapers; they'll print I'm dead!
Now I'll be left alone. Now I'm free except........
Except, except, except, except..............
I can't stop burning.
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2. |
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In love with me, she’s hateful, sees a castrated overture but I sing in red and pink and white and gray and in middle day fat purple stars spit violet shards until the sunlight frays like moaning tatters of ravaged celluloid; a daytime photographed in tinny, gray yesterdays, waving rent and gasping, spots are boiling and those blisters raise up white and squirming, quiver quaver hail stone welts.
In love with me, who can she be but a storm crow flown in from angry seas?
In love with me, who can she be but a camera with crooked teeth, clicking tongue and lustful, clyclopean cataracts?
In love with me, she’s angry, squeezes rain from the buttercups and drinks it drunkenly while a ways away I’m waltzing, waning dumbly at the drooling drops upon, about me… she looks up greedily; dampened mouths are staring; gaping maws blink repeatedly for eating me is all they see. I entrap her shoulders. We are stinging and her steely nails will fail and flounder, weakening and so, so thirsty.
In love with me, who can she be but a bruised pool of spilled and spoiling inner fire?
In love with me, who can she be but a knuckle scraping, rapping on a door to a bursting room, and I’ve nothing on?
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3. |
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I needed her
her smallest bones
to make needles
her curtsy killed her
She was swollen up
aglow
a rotten white paradise of sunlight
Upside down
in churned-up black soil
a dew-laden moon-maze garden
It betrayed
floral flirting
an aggravation of calm
and there was
Me so noble
and I needed
her so swollen
her smallest bones.
Her gasping pride
her station staring
mouthing silent Latin family
Mottoes from a dusty crest
tarsals under bend sinister
Black-flecked rusted ripe her lips
and a properly proportioned bustle
Brave and dimpled strength
her supine law
my fingers must separate
Me so noble
and I needed
her so swollen
her smallest bones.
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4. |
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Oh, isn't it nice? I'm loved. I'm fat. My garden is loooooooooming. Dad's got rock doves on the roof and the cats in the sun room are blooming.
Isn't it nice knowing that I'm happy and if I go mad it'll be from disease?
Encouraged and brave, I march into attics and laugh at the monkey, at the halberd, at the bust...
The carpets are thin and fantastic; the tacks will stick you when you crawl. And every shadow in the den, in the hall, is a gray, granite cellar breathing brown leaves in the fall.
Mother's white, virginal, grandmother, too, and every man is a hero and a saint. But Satan infects jungles overseas and makes the Hottentots there don warpaint.
Isn't it nice knowing that I'm happy and if I go mad it'll be from disease?
Encouraged and brave, I march into attics and laugh at the monkey, at the halberd, at the bust...
The plumbing is rusted and choked with bugs, but the water's like an unfurrowed brow. When someone falls, I'll draw their hands in dusklight, show the furious beetles, then bow.
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5. |
Lizard Tree On Fire
04:11
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6. |
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The children:
“Singing sun fire…”
They advance, the lights of day. Before them coal-black beards turn gray!
They advance, the lights of noon. Before them staunch resolve will swoon!
The children:
“Dancing sword songs…”
the enemy:
They’re children waging war with plasma, blinding us before we melt away!
With every hand directing blades against a star- we clash with gods today!
The children:
“Mother, lead us!”
The mud of war, a boiling fen, it bubbles red.
She holds her head up to the sky and every eye on every child will see her die.
The children:
“Thou art fallen!”
“Mother leads us to salvation so we shine for those who struck her down, showing them that love is death and sending them to heaven on a million points of golden steel!”
the enemy:
We marched upon this battleground with dreams unbound and giddy!
An echo:
We want glory, we want glory!
The enemy:
We faced our foes and then the children showed us gilded mercy, smashing us into forever…
The children:
“Blood-soaked daylight!”
They dispatch with joy and strength the muddied halberd-bearing ranks!
They are song and fevered eyes alight with heaven as men die!
“Heaven holds you!”
the enemy:
They’re children waging war with plasma, blinding us before we melt away!
With every hand directing blades against a star- we clash with gods today!
The enemy:
“We scatter wetly, messy just as grain before the reaping blade in rain… But storm clouds cackle wickedly and when the sun is swallowed up those children are but children and they fall in pieces all apart!
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7. |
Dog vs. Postman, in B
08:00
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I'm surprised its fire burns so bright! That's boiling, bloody, mad murder in its eyes!
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8. |
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9. |
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She:
I need something fragrant, effulgent, yet mild, for it must woo a lord and ensure me a child. I've tried your elixirs, your potions and salves and yet princely boudoirs are elusive. What now???
He:
My lady, it does seem unlikely but true that a royal aversion is squatting on you. We must tempt the loins of a duke or an earl but your corpus olfactus makes nostril hairs curl!
She:
I bathe once a month and I don't drink with monks and I keep my testicular hair in a bunch on a string 'round my neck, for that keeps away pests, so you said, and prevents lice from making their nests.
He:
My lady, the mane from your manhood will do to keep fleas at bay, yet no prince should eschew your comely attire and feminine wiles and the contents of THIS, my last magical phial!
She:
A spell in the night (yet it's fecal, by sight) but applied thoroughly he shall be mine, by rights! A codpiece, a carriage, a gap in his grin, a unicorn tapestried love shall I win!
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10. |
Commercial Success
03:23
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11. |
Marvelous Murderess
06:16
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verse 1
I say, could she have cut them up? Just look at her fingers
so frail and angel-pale! Do we honestly think that she's a murderess?
I say, doesn't she look smart? Her eyes are dusk and dawn an alabaster midnight apart!
I say, doesn't she look neat? The snarling, scarlet storm of her lips is a thousand degrees!
verse 2
I say, doesn't she look nice? The line of her dress, a sullen caress, an unfathomable price!
I say, doesn't she look fine? The rouge on her cheeks, a crescendo and peak, a fugue of red wine!
chorus 1
That man in tan, he stares and parts his hair with motor oil!
His suit is rude and so obtuse, that shirt is sweaty-spoiled!
His hat is sat upon and creased like greasy, unbaked bread!
He'd do quite well to sit a spell without it on his head!
verse 3
I say, isn't she daring? A delectable pairing, everything that she's wearing; a sensual springtime!
I say, isn't she graceful? The swish of her hips, a deluge of dizzy, drenching desire!
chorus 3
That woman sneers, her face appears to frown like melting stone!
Her jowls and unkempt scowl are weeping boils that scream and moan!
Her fists are in her shoes her maddened eyes are rust-damp screws!
Between her and a muddied sow I think I could not choose!
end bit
Can you imagine her digging graves in miniskirts? High heels like those never tread once on corpse mud!
Why set your hair awry just to see that someone dies? Death-struggle-tousled locks are oafish and uncouth!
Isn't she remarkably, even if ostensibly, ensconced in a splendor magnificent to see?
And even if she killed them all, I'd rip out throats like an animal to keep her pretty powdered hide from languishing in jail!
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Lucas Lanthier Vienna, Austria
Digital discography for Cinema Strange, the Deadfly Ensemble, and Lucas Lanthier. (Chronological; newest at the top)
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