1. |
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2. |
Nocturne
04:37
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What’s the appeal;
What’s the deal
With the boy next door?
Why do I see romance
In his shuffling arrogance?
I detect in his disinterest
A heart forlorn.
Another black hole
On parole.
Here’s the keys
To my soul.
Another vain brat
At the hub of a short-sighted universe.
Set me free from the urge
To purge myself of me.
Give me the strength to reject.
Give me the time to decline.
There’s plenty less spineless fish
In the sea you say.
But when will they come my way?
Heaven’s corrupt.
I’m not there.
Is it fair?
Am I wrong?
Companions will come.
In tandem you’ll take on the world
With incendiary verve.
And what’s more it won’t be long.
Alas, how’s a lack
Instigate an attack
On your heart?
An absence can scar.
Who do real wounds think they are
Compared to
A thing that’s not even there?
Give me nerve to discern.
Give me the night to decide
I always saw best in the dark, you say.
Will anyone light my way?
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3. |
Baedecker
04:35
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(by Karol Szymanowski)
You come to me, smiling and moist,
Speaking to me tender words in a tongue I know not,
Your country's tongue. In your limpid gaze
I saw the birth of distant loves.
Tell me – the bursting sun of your skies –
Does it fire the unknown ardors of your senses?
Searing like holy flames before the altar
In love's temples where hearts languish?
Tell me – the lukewarm Night, sly schemer,
Whose bosom quivers with myriad stars,
Does she intoxicate your pure soul with peerless caresses,
Keeps she the troubling secret in her veil?
You speak to me ... The words, like from a blossoming flower,
Fly from your mouth towards the light of day.
I have understood your language – and from your pink lips
I draw, drunk, the poison of love.
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4. |
No Matter
02:49
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(by Karol Szymanowski)
Leave off talking ... Let silence sing
Its stances and romances.
It is the holy singer of lays who follows love
And the nights and the days.
So what if our bodies are alike –
Towards the infinite flow
Our souls
And swoon
In radiant delirium
Of tenderness,
Of caress ...
Sweet Lord!
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5. |
Cale
06:36
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Cale surveying the neon prairie,
Glancing at the spittle-blasted asphalt,
Dug his hijacker boots to a sturdy halt,
A one-armed bandit graveyard's
Hum moaning through the gaslight fog.
Said "I smoke to keep the cigarette alight.
I'm not the kind of kid who likes to fight."
'Why's a handsome kid like you,
Per-ambling the spew-spurned streets at
Curtain hour, now?" asked
The teetering bozo hobo wrapped in card.
"Just a-gandering for a hook or crook
On which to rest my weary coat of arms.
I've tasted love and other psalms,
And drained a thousand amulets of charm.
I've cruised circuitous avenues of sleaze,
Disease and all those affectations of a bruised isle,
Call it the vain pursuit of vain pursuits.
Or call it the wistful rambling of a snowblind foal,
Askew, adrift, adieu, adieu.
And ultimately what's it worth to you?"
The vagrant stirs, strikes up a dog, and shuffling
Like a deck in blackjack virgin hands laments
The privileged bored, rasps, "so why the shades?"
"Today is not a day I want to see in technicolour"
Cale abhorrs the poisoned light and tilts the moon,
Implores the rich to choke on their doubloons.
"I've cursed the sleeping, mocked the slain,
If everything is all there is, I'll take nothing
And a refund from St Peter's Porch,
Thanks all the same.
And driven by the frazzled ghosts of womb impulse
I'll write a song that takes me where my heart
First opened fire,
Where everything that follows makes us liars."
The hobo falls and takes a bow,
And frisking for a signpost, Cale drags
From deep and ragged pockets of the dead,
A chapbook weatherbound in skin,
Still warm from the last heartbeat of the stiffening sinner.
'How to make amends and get a fix.'
'How to keep your friends while turning tricks.'
'How to welcome providence,
And how to keep your distance from the dramas
That design to decimate your wit and wonder.'
An aphoristic bible, a headbomb for street survival.
An Machiavellian armoury of techniques
To keep your head when bedding down with freaks.
Cale rips off the spine, and chews the pages
Like communion wafers, a flask of urban moonshine,
Washing wisdom down his broken pelt.
The moon a period crimson broad,
A cigarette kiss in the silkscreen mist,
Illuminates the cyphers he has downed,
And guides him to a fissure in the ground.
A booming techtonic sub-woofer bursting forth
Sounds of the suburbs in plaintive and searing words
Once the terrain of the gods of the underworld.
Now the mouthpiece of the damned,
Where heaven and hell can link hands.
Cale drags his sorry and shit-stained ass
Fast to the shelter of spiralling stairwells
And steaming manholes; in his pockets
A bilious bible,
A titanium heart and a dream,
The desire to know all that he means.
A cast-iron playground is rusted with days,
As the clouds leak a lustful malaise on the streets
Full of hope condemned full by flotillas of busying
Germs who would hobble your feet,
While you strive to dance to your heartbeat,
With your head between cask and concrete,
With your loves marked by sunshine and sleet.
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6. |
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I painted shows like Caroline....with an axe of blood.
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7. |
Interloper
02:52
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8. |
Brave New World
01:53
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I have a great friend,
His name unknown.
He lives in a toothless white city,
Where no grass is grown.
And we know who you are,
And we know who you'll be
And we know that you don't love me.
His vision is airbrushed
By raw static noise.
The kindliest touch
Retracted destroys.
And we know that you care,
And we know you're aware,
That I know, that you won't love me.
My blood is of rivers
Coarsing exotic planes.
While the map that you give us,
Is not the terrain.
And we know you're not evil,
And we know you mean well,
When you say, that you don't love me.
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9. |
Reuben
03:27
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Talking to the Idaho seminary boys
With a twig from the chamber and a flower from the tracks,
Neatly-pressed cassocks curtain Converse boots,
And their eyes beam vigour and their words ring bright,
With their eyes in rapture on a gaze so fixed,
And their skater-teen dialect intoning their faith,
At the coach station underpass we smile and diverge,
A kernel of faith, a dead flower and a stick.
On the twilight coach home from Ozwiecm.
Does the sleeper-flower recall being once a mere stem?
Peregrinations 'cross the pebble shore,
The sunset, a Blakean period smear,
Astrewn with tee-pee pagan beacons and pyres,
Built by kids from the gift of a sunk timber liner.
Murmurations of birds like we never saw,
Gather dense, danse macabre, above the old pier.
A teenager sketching a pile of old tyres,
We walk arm-in-arm past the twenty-four-hour diner
As the sky beds down, a chill plummets southwards.
Through the pub window, over a cigarette, mouthing:
'I love you' will never suffice.
An essence so rich cannot be put on ice
In the lexicon of our lobotomised yelp.
I'm kicking my boots free of starfish and kelp.
In the early shot of the dawn chorus.
We're aware the world's a playground built for us.
What the twilight coach from Ozwiecm taught us:
We're humbled that life seems to implore us
And them, to keep on keeping on, never alone
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10. |
June Resolution No. 1
04:39
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11. |
How To Recycle A Dream
03:11
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Nick Hudson Tbilisi, Georgia
Nick Hudson is a UK-born, Tbilisi-based composer/artist/image-maker/activist..
In April 2021
Nick released his first solo album in five years - Font Of Human Fractures - to glowing reviews from The Quietus and Libération.
"There isn’t really anyone making music like Nick Hudson” - The Quietus
“Genius” - BBC Introducing
“Scott Walker channeling Coil” - Mojo
www.theacademyofsun.com
... more
Nick Hudson recommends:
Stunning, visionary landscapes.
go to album
Colour Phase
by Claw The Thin Ice
Hyper-melodic and very moving.
go to album
Gaslight Illuminations
by Oli Spleen
Peerless balladry and stunning arrangements.
go to albumIf you like Nick Hudson, you may also like:
Black Feather Under Your Tongue
by Toby Driver and Nick Hudson
supported by 5 fans who also own “TERRitORies of disSENT”
go to album
supported by 5 fans who also own “TERRitORies of disSENT”
"There goeth before [King Paimon] also an Host of Spirits, like Men with Trumpets and well sounding Cymbals, and all other sorts of Musical Instruments. He hath a great Voice, and roareth at his first coming...."
go to album
The enigmatic Frank Ene's solo record lives in a magical world where Serge Gainsbourg fronts Yellow Magic Orchestra.
go to album
