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about
'The logic of pessimism moves through three refusals: a no-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-for-us, or Schopenhauer’s tears); a yes-saying to the worst (refusal of the world-in-itself, or Nietzsche’s laughter); and a no-saying to the for-us and the in-itself (a double refusal, or Cioran’s sleep).' – Eugene Thacker, Cosmic Pessimism.
lyrics
Thank fuck – Nature’s giving up the ghost.
Hark! The blowout, and Marsinah smeared in mud.
Those headhunters’ prizes, iron chains & serpent stones
can’t plug the flow (can’t plug the flow, can’t plug the flow.)
Chance error during expression – where will this lead?
An heretical protein on a conversion spree.
Cratered crowns need some lessons from the rhino horn;
Brueghel has nothing on the detail in your spongiform.
Myoclonic watchmaker, a bundle of spoils –
the higher the bureaucrat, the more those flats will boil.
Volcanic lavender – let’s take a couple’s selfie.
What’s nice right now is all that counts to a wrong one like me.
O sweetest kerosene and pitch-black rain divine –
I watch a nurse eating shit to the finger family song as a kind of therapy.
The gymnosophist says the animal most wise
is the one us junkies are yet to identify.
Mantic whispers of thallium isotopes –
our deposit brought to nought in a subduction zone.
I’ll leave a love bite on your Achilles heel
while you spend this big blip reinventing the wheel.
A line of sunbeams cough as you skim op-eds produced by bots
and an invite to a do where we all have to dance on a thinning, trembling permafrost.
Your dreams are decorations for vegetal life;
your sweat’s a glistening rainbow of thermophiles.
A scent, a kiss, flying fox and eucalypts, YES YES carried on the face;
maternity camp, helicopter downdraft, reciprocal capture displaced.
This capacity for kama muta has been blown;
scar tissue on the septal electrode.
Take aim at the stars, pay in dusky blood, smother salt marshes in DDT,
binge Disney films backwards, snort oxytocin for something close to TLC.
Volcanic Lavender – far beyond 6,000 feet –
have some clear air turbulence to sweep you off your seat.
O fellow sufferer, does this check out as concern?
You project these hallucinations ahead of me at every turn.
credits
released January 28, 2021
I.S. Rowley: guitar, vox
Alistair Lax: additional instrumentation, vox
Just an(other) effort to orchestrate a withdrawal from futurelessness without recourse to faticidic guruism or modish
agitprop. Via a floundering in theurgic processes, the ritual body is constructed, dismantling what Jack Spicer called ‘the big lie of the personal’....more
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