the crucible

[what follows is a recent draft of a lyric for inclusion on a record currently being assembled by nick hudson and duncan harrison]

darling, i'm..sorry i silenced you
sabotage, may you entice me to...
sling-shot
cannonball
tin-pot
cabaret

orchidae, terraces tapped for sound
carrion, stiffening on the ground
sentinel
satellite
smash'n'grab
arsenal
pick'n'mix
trenchfire
stab

darling, i'm...sorry i sentenced you
suffragette, i'm in detention too

(spoken): (LIANA CANOPY SCREENS US 'GAINST THE MOON/CLOSED-CIRCUIT BREATHING ON MY NECK/SYNCOPATES THE SNARL OF PULSE RIFLES' YULETIDE TWINKLE ON THE BROW)

the magma behind the rupture
the magma behind the rupture

marinade, acid bath in the haze
water aid
wire trap
just a graze

darling, i'm...sorry i sweetened you
distorted mouth, the poultice i weaken to

the drop

[below is the completed lyric for a song to be featured on a record currently being constructed by nick hudson and duncan harrison - 'The Drop' being the first song we have co-authored]

opulent gaze
poppy field awash in blaze
the moon, a butter slice, condescends
half a bowl of rice between friends

fairness on fire
young skin 'gainst the scrub of wire
uncle father a scapegoat, a stooge
apres ma mere le deluge

sensible clothes
broken dolls under a hose
sap from a bud makes a child
scraped of the blood keeps him wild

[prayer]: FATHER HOLD MY HAND AND PRICK MY SKIN AND DO NOT STOP or give in BEFORE YOU MILK THE PUREST DROP

five years

[below being the lyric - subject to revision - of the baader-meinhof ballad in 5/8 currently being assembled for a record by nick hudson and duncan harrison]

five dull flames
no names, no faith, no fear
one idea
smouldering in here

bunker-bound
never fought, forgot or found
refugees
dust in the breeze

red alert
ideology designs to hurt
gagged and bound
never to be found

hunger strike
survey of their hopes and likes
cut them dry
anaesthetic to the eye

vision scrubbed
memory nipped and tucked
family wiped
hammer, sickle, star, stripe

Meditation Whilst Purchasing A Pomegranite

'It occured to me yesterday that I'd never seen a baby bleed. Never once have I seen a young, small human emit blood from a fissure in the skin that encloses its virgin organs, organs which one would imagine were pink, moist, supple. The idea of a baby bleeding is such a gargantuan slur on the fabric of middle-righteousness; child injury or death is amongst the most offensive of concepts to any bipedal hetero-professional breeder, but is it because they truly love the child - surely a gurgling, puking mass of inchoate flesh is difficult to love, especially one that causes such agony to the new mother during birth - or is it because the death of a child, itself little more than insurance on their own mortality, represents a fissure in the skin of their illusions? - the abrupt demise of the freshest possible manifestation of their own flesh, way before their own has decayed to the point of flatlining, and thus a threat to the body of meaning they have contrived about themselves, whose code, airtight as a balloon, relies on there being consistency of content and little elasticity of form. Babies, who spend most of their early months closer to the asphalt than we ever dare draw near, never bleed; if they die, they die intact, unpunctured, whole(some) and tragically. When a baby does bleed, its proprieter-parent's body of meaning is loosed unto the ether, and with it their belief in their capacity to love the offspring; and therein lies the true source of mourning.' And with that conclusion, I returned to my place of work armed with a pomegranite and a bejewelled sheath of revelation, content, and empowered by the stoicism of my umbilicus to tangential spheres, despite the best(ial) attempts of work's deadening klaxon to have such portals annulled. Another day in paradise.