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What the hell is that? These men are nothing but small kids, moving like snakes full of dynamite. Here comes the coward; i keep ramming it home that whe should all get the fuck out of here. We are ethereal heroes, yelling our chemical patriosm on the muggiest stage ever made.
There is wild love and fire all around us; this is lunchtime, vultures. This place is not a christianity heavyweight but the worst is yet to come. Sorry.
Come on fake peasant! Shoot my goddamned arm and take me home. A land where eyelids are fed a diet of faces, blood and smells.
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“Wake up dear trees, please wake up ! We are not that brave, these damn kids speak too much. Bring all the forest back to sleep !”
Someone is doing a really nasty vanishing trick right now. When did they draw red eyes on every bush ? When did they teach words to the wolves and songs to the bears ?
We are more than ...Wait a minute you bookworm ! We were “a small army”, you wrote that shit in your propagandha for kids. I’m the baddest state murderer ever made, how dare can I be that “small army” all by myself ? This story doesn’t make sense, get me out of here. I’ll get the fame later from a safe attack or a burning nursery !
There is a small town not too far from here, I’ll reach the church before the things behind the yells of laughter catch me. Come on smell me out, creatures ! I’m a fox on wheels little bastards; this car is faster than a thousand gods on their golden horses ! The smell of confidence has slowly disappeared from you breath; this is what my neck told me before I hit the windshield. Guess the carwreck brings you back in the game...
I’ m undamped, you know ! I might just be a bag of broken bones but I swear I’ll get to this fuckin’ church. So stop it grabby squirels ! We’ve been told that the sheep taste good, that’s right. But my plate is a loner.
Thank God the church is all around me.
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« Hello, hello. I small in. ». (employee)
“The Gods are singing through his lungs, this is the fountainhead of our redemption philosophy” (crowd)
Is this mouth the hotbed of a metaphysical schism? Come on, this guy can’t pronounce understandable sentences! He is just a clever retarded, a corrupted saint for the atheist militia. We shaped him yesterday, maybe Tuesday, and now he’s leading a bunch of defeated sheep to the river. God bless the penpusher, submissive and honest spillways of mankind.
This note is a gift fellows! A golden rundown of what this carpetbagger had planned for all of us. We will jubilantly cover walls, trees and children with these words. We are the three, aren’t we? The call is still knocking on our chest.
White eyes. Guess they were tired of our pale suns because they left the day after; beaten by gold and by grass. As usual, they will say.
Can you see them feeding drizzle to our kids, again and again? With beds full of forgotten rhythms across our land, I am a fake singer. Pray for me when the lights turn grey. Ask the good Lord for a new prophet, we are too busy and i am alone. Goodnight.
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“We are here to celebrate the most beautiful love that I ever met …”
(Slash, slash!!)
Oh God, they stabbed the priest in the face and offered us a weird show: diamonds and gold copulating in a churchman’s mouth. None of us can honestly describe how they turned the young man into a ghost widow. Sorry officer, because of the shinning lungs you will only get stories. Forget about the truth and don’t show any compassion for the lady. The wedding was a masquerade, she felt like a black man dancing in a Klan ceremony. Too many sheets can tell about her wild moves. We are a small town, Sir.
Dig a hole for the lovers; bring a halter for the holy thief, and listen to me you bunch of retarded farmers: this place is floating above saints.
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We’re getting obstreperous, our lungs are longing for trumpets or primitive songs and the old man is teaching how to debare passion from young hearts. He’s singing to the deaf but they only dance with horses and earth tremors. What about quelling our youth ? Oh come on! We are gold and glory for his land; we’ll scream his wiseness overseas. That’s the deal.
We’re pledging obedience to the brotherhood. These barbarians are now kissing our flag and our wine to forget their mothers and sons. These are the greatest nights men can claim their love trough; we’ve made everything ours not mine. I am every glass drank, and the glass itself. Please feed me to the crowd.
Pachyderms, pachyderms and pachyderms. Is there an awful parade going on here ? Bring us back the lions, it was quite a fair fight ! And did trees swallow some of us or is ivory boys’ worst friend ? Weak men, great fathers. Thanks to them the afternoon never ends.
With towns come girls, whores and wives. See me as a golden ship floating on a diamond sea, paint it for the jurors. Poor quest defeated by second-hand mermaids, one-nights beat years and morning won’t come with swords and thunder as familiar faces in those sheets. They didn’t kiss goodbye but they left. Or did we ?
Call us with their names and we’ll turn our heads towards the wind.
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Allelulia …
This one has got me licked Lord, so take this expurgated edition of a pray.
“ God bless this law my dear quislings, it made us whores in a Mormon town !”
The guy is an emetic but he’s damn right. We are the pick of the punch, we last year’s little yobs. They have turned every man into a booze-eating, it’s like selling antelops to legless lions. Just give it a quick skim gentlemen, the city is a owlish young lady going like greased lightning. She’s calling for bootleg stallions ...
How sad, little girl, how sad the church is.
Spendthrit habits from new wives and overwork. It can easily befuddle a wild pack of family men and their tommy guns. But it doesn’t please Mr Harelip at all: “ Keep easies full, I’ll keep the streets clean”. “And what about some name-dropping arrogant freak ?” Announcing a civil war in a slapdash manner, tons of graves in this slattern’s womb. We are feeding History with schoolboy mistakes.
How sad, little girl, how sad the church is.
Let’s pack on all sail ! Kiss everyone goodbye with passion, take any kind of blessings. We are about to feed legend. These roads have never met a funeral car full of expensives suits, submachine guns and home made brandy. Sorry farmers, ten years old dungarees can’t challenge this.
How sad, little girl, how sad the church is when thousand of them are loading their spears. We are dragons and George is doing his part. It won’ take long but You’re already all around us, filling grey hearts with kindly love. Alleluia.
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We are “the coward” and they are “the brave”. A mask is floating above every face here.
[…]
A long time, short time, a blank. The night is ours as we ran from the farm, surrounded by pigs and horses. I paint a damned damned curse on the road to civilisation and non-cousin parents. Can’t shut these eyes full of death and glory. A six pack, a gun, a pen; then a good diary.
Bang! Bang! Bang! We shot the dog in the head.
We shot the gold and we shot my brother down. Hail, hail to the only child.
There were faces sublimated by sorrow. He was buried alone ‘cause they’re coming tomorrow. It’s a long train for a bunch of dwarves and their second-hand wives.
Here comes the fat man: “Is this car for rent sir?”. “Don’t want a pig in my car as you don’t want a bastard in your daughter. Shut up! I found a phone in the mouth of my brother, a voice yelling “I’m OK, I’m alright but I’m dead!”
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released December 24, 2010
Songs by SALVING THY AMISS.
Recorded by Alex Poulain between june & october 2008.
Mixed and mastered by Stevan Vassiljevic on winter 2010.
Artwork by 3MMI Design.
