This cocoon, caught in Vesuvius' shadow. Only the ashes remain. And I waited there for you. Why couldn't you? Here we lie, waiting for something to startle, to shake us from gravity's pull. And so the sleeping hours are through. What can we do?
The tainted election, the low dirty war, it happened before you came to.
But this is solution, and this is amends. The joke always tends to come true. But there on your windowsill over the unmoving platoon, written in paperback: the key to the quarterback's room under waning moon.
This quiet serves only to hide you, provide you, what I knew: it'd come back to you.
Take this palm, follow the lines here are written and script out the rest of your life and feel your fingers falling slack and all folding back.
The sorry conclusion, the hole in the sky, command what is tried, what is true. But without solution, with feet on the ground, it won't make a sound 'til you're through. So loosen your shoulder blades. This is your hour to make do. Because there on the timberline deep cold November shines through, soft and absolute.
Noise pop at its finest from this rambunctious Melbourne group that thrives on louder-than-loud guitars and belted-out vocals. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 4, 2024