[a narrative for] Information by SoundBath

“I can help you I believe… Information, you can get. You must now open your mind, and get to Tula, quick.”

“We’ve got some lovely information, I’ll give you a very fine price.”

The man blinked rapidly, thrice.

He seemed exceptionally brainy, for his manner was strangely uncanny. He wasn’t what I would call zany, but great disdain did he noticeably ooze.

Like others, he thought I was odd, still he gave me a courteous nod.

So in search of my goal did I depart, but before I could leave, the man came running.

“I can help you I believe… Information, you can get. You must now open your mind, and get to Tula, quick.”

So to Tula I went, in search of a song I so desired.

The winds they did blow eerily, but I felt that the day could be more dire.

There were stalls selling guitars and seashells in many shades.

People were scattered from many trades

I was greeted by a peculiar lady. She seemed to be rather beautiful. But I wondered if she was at all very dutiful.

Before I could open my mouth, she shouted, “For you, I have a note!”

“But how did you know?” I asked.

“Do you want it or not?” she did say. But, she then vanished before I could look away.

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[a couplet for] Cider Palace by Miserable Chillers

Notice the heartache of the lonely artist. Feel his weary sadness as he meanders through the dark forest.

Notice the heartache of the lonely artist. Feel his weary sadness as he meanders through the dark forest.

He finds it hard to see the forsaken land of a tale told long ago. Overshadowed by the green namesake of a lie so low.

Who is that strumming near the cider palace? Perhaps she’d like a sip from the golden chalice.

She is but a whimsical mistress, admired as she sits for awhile upon my insistence.

The artist shudders as he thinks of the nocturnal pond of loneliness.

He wants to leave but she yearns for a thing that seems to always be slipping into the shadow of neglected pestilence.

The full length album, Schoënblintsjia comes out 2/22 via Baby Blue!

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[a love poem for] L’Hawaïenne by La Femme

An ocean so beautiful, lights up the night sky, the neon light burns a lucid hole through her eyes.

Roses are sad, violets are too, my only hope, is to melt into you.

Orchids are white, ghosts are rarely blue, your smile is lovely, and so are you.

Magnolias grow, with tiny buds of clay. The road is long, and so is the day.

Sunflowers reach, up to the night sky, as the red door awaits, the mockingbird cries.

My eyes in her eyes. Her lips against mine. I melted like sunshine, and spoke like a mime.

Foxes in hedges, surround the farm. Your body is slender, and so are her arms.

Daisies are pretty and daffodils are mild, but the hibiscus flower will never fall out of style.

The day is warm, and so is your tender smile.

My angel from Saturn. My nocturnal desire. Never leave, or I’ll drown in the wild.

An ocean so beautiful, lights up the night sky, the neon light burns a lucid hole through her eyes.

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Plastic Mermaids | Dollshot [a fleeting poem]

a daydream however far it floats will always be but a fleeting midnight ghost

Plastic Mermaids – Floating in a Vacuum

a daydream however far it floats will always be but a fleeting midnight ghost

don’t believe that the mission is familiar — for the mission is actually bizarre and somewhat of a galactic mar

a reverie that is not quite so familiar — a reverie that is somewhat exotic and lonesome to the man with the piano and ghastly synthesizer

how happy are the little minions of aspirations — please never tire of the minute and waning hope

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Dollshot – Nacht and Träume

the midnight muse is on its way to visit the little girl — now quite sleepy she begins to breath quite easy

how happy is the victim of the vivid nightmare — how gently she goes down to the pale and weary children of the mire

I saw the esoteric place of a lost generation and oh how i mourned the empty dream of an empty veneration

do not be sad by how ruthless she is and do not cry when it comes to an end — everything will come together in the end

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Low Hum – Strange Love [a strange poem]

The aging man couldn’t stop thinking about a certain love
It was just such a low and bizarre hum — he couldn’t remember the planet’s silly fate
Always reminding him of an old film he had watched on such a lonely night

the raging man couldn’t stop thinking about a certain love — it was just such a low and bizarre plight of foolhardy fun

nor could he remember the planet’s silly fate — a thing that reminded him of an old film he had watched on such a lonely night of weight

he was shocked by a strange feeling of fright as he found himself feeling rather melancholy and curiously light

his mind always churning about a feeling that looked so pale and grim

the world was quite frightened by a man so bright they thought the situation had become rather dim

never remembering the old film everyone so loved and admired — he thought the world was nothing but a mire

they tried to distract him with a bomb — but he said it was time to start thinking about the mob

he couldn’t stop thinking about a love that felt so strange — the bird took flight like a morning dove into the crazed array

the strange dove of love was like a lucid dance into the mist of the fading afterglow — never remembering the funny little things he had forgotten so long ago

the wildman took a dive like an iridescent cowboy as his mind mutated into a chronic wasteland of snow and fragmented ice

he couldn’t stop thinking about the strange feeling — a feeling that felt rather nice

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