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|=-------------------=+=-----------------------------=+=---------------------=| | login:tuc | | | | welcome to the undiscovered country | | nothing more than | | the indomitable question. | | | | 17dec92 issue: 2 (approx. a quarter ounce) | | | | editors: | | la bete noire rm09216@swttegan.bitnet | | s.r. prozak cblanc@pomona.claremont.edu | | | | this file is meant to be passed on, unaltered, so that the word may be | | spread to willing minds all over the universe. quote it, include it, or | | just forward it, but don't charge for it or mangle it. thx. | |=-------------------=+=-----------------------------=+=---------------------=| (...) morning's inexorable time to arrive the hour of dawn thrice postponed noplace in these speckled ways is time for escape or denial under a sky so blue as my soul deceptive entity, descending shroud, lacking the legs to flee for the sand dunes finding in darkness our tumbling eyes abandoned by our own desires. confusing and jumping, the flamenco dance our footfalls the lightest, crossing the end, we find ourselves in the shadowy hall our thoughts like the sparrows, thrown like the sand, united at once in their condemnation for us too shameful to dance in the sun. s.r.p. [././.] "Continuity" -- 1992 Continuity, Reach out across Heaven To secure the memory So pristine, So that I may envelop in it And swim in the Lake, Long forgotten. Continuity, Find the pathway, grown over It does not exist So that I may see her face again To know the softness Long remembered. Continuity, I ask not of thee, Too much to task, So that I may attain My determination again, My shell Now broken. Continuity, Defy your logic, Embody my spirit, Declare my presence So that I may see The gray again. Continuity, Fly with the moon, Reach down So that you may grant A reprieve, And I may see The blue again. Continuity, Breathe life Into the observer, Transmute my soul Across Heaven So that I may see The green of your eyes again. l.b.n. [|\|\|\] between the thighs of memory myself left at a loss lining eyes of darkened halls retribution for the cost the spikes emerge unwittingly from each orb's violent center forged steel converts to gold. deceptive in its uselessness, foolish stranglehold. s.r.p. [_-_-_] (stoner adventures) I was falling gracefully; I tripped across reality, and fell, again, notwithstanding back onto the streets of burnt velvet and found myself staggered amidst the stars of our comprehension, wandering slurwise among the many things I'd saved from a repentant childhood. My bong burnt bright, electrifiying fractals dancing in the raging embers, smoke curling like a halo around my bowed and fatal head. Park benches were too cold for my limbs, and the air was too free. The restlessness of a millenium's solitude soared through my rushing blood, the roar of being alive skipping like a jumping spark through my brain. New York, January, 1992. Times Square, site of the festivities past, sung with the night, a mirror for my unsettled soul. Four cigarette lighthouses strung in the breeze, windsoft snow curling my ankles and singing my nostrils. Monks chant past in their Christmas putrescence, the darkness swirling around their vibrant eyes, full of delights and remebrances subsumed. The wrapping and the children and the brights lights of Norman Rockwell's screaming demise were far away, spun upward and skittering through the ice like the waves of smokelike snow blasting my face. Spike's battered apartment door yielded to my hand, crackling like yellowed newspapers dying before a fire and swinging open as close to silently as a door that thoroughly burnt an assortment of fetid browns could ever hope to. Newspapers snowdrifted the floor, rising above clothes and books and empty bags once containing green bud. Spike was in a corner, under the only lamp in the world, his liver scarred by the yellow the light impregnated his face with. "Spike?" I said, and Spike turned, spat foam, and said, "Let's load this bitch." Spike's bong had been a Macintosh computer in better days, but was now a large potsucking hole to which we applied fellatio, liberally enticing the jetting smoke into our voidsome lungs. The traditional "toaster" shape of the macintosh had been modified only by a large tube running out the back and a bowl protruding from the front. It delivered nicely large, well-cooled and smooth hits, and Spike had named it Max. Putting a Godflesh CD in the player, Spike turned to me and pulled out a bag. "Check out this schwag," he said. Soft, light. Definitely not brick or antique; also moist, so probably good. Purplish tint, darker green. Malthusian green bud! "Is it malthusian?" I asked. Spike nodded, and then sung the last word: "scorpion," referring to the highest potency grade of malthusian green bud. I took the first bong hit, sucking down an insane amount of smoke, and passed the bong over. Spike took a huge hit, filling what had once been a computer screen with pure white. "Dead?" I asked the bowl, and Spike laughed, and filled another. We smoked to the pounding, crushing emotional haze of Godflesh to the point where I thought I saw the smoke curling between the traces webbing together the guitar notes, under a chorus of multicolored nuclear flatulence representing the drum machine. Reaganomics would have made sense at that moment. We staggered out of his battered apartment and into the coldest swing of the mercenary wind, but we had our jackets and hats and sunglasses, so the night was tolerable, slick, and empty. Reality had become just another thing below us, like memories made to be forgotten, and we were walking on reality much like we gingerly toed our way along the ice. I was still shaking drumbeats and muffled chords out of my ears from the music, and Spike was calmly drifting away in his uniquely contemplative manner. Somewhere to our right there was a demonstration, complete with rattrap cops swinging batons to the beat of the ephemeral drum. Skulls cracked, and exploded out bloodsauce bearing hundreds of eyes, each one bobbing and twisting to keep its iris focused where the empty sun would have been. Does the sun ever fully burn up? Maybe it does when we run out of words, thought Spike, and I was there with him. Store windows were made of ice and cracked with that wonderful coupdegrace sound of ice cubes being dropping into hot coffee, that creak of defeat, that warping, fatal noise. Gutsmoke of the city drifted in over the roofs and submerged the buildings, placing a photofilter over the clouds as it blurred in from above. I walked past the entrance to a tattoo parlor and a giant tentacle like the root of some ancient tree impeded my path, but I stepped over it with an undiscovered grace, sailing past the darkened door next to six closed orifices, each like the grave of Elvis, slatted thickly with steel slabs and lubricated with mucuslike graffitti. The city breathed, coughing and hacking like a machine deranged, and we breathed, simple puffing, gasping, and sighing beneath it. "We're ludicrously baked," said Spike, as we went into the third random store in search of food. The letters on the neon had begun to sing me christmas carrols, and I was very much doubting my ability to remember if I had cash or even how to make change at this point. This time it was a grocery store, but the only thing I could find to buy with my meagre supply of cash was a large head of cabbage. Spike bought a bunch of stuff; the clerk stared at us and accepted my grimy funds, with Spike attempting to write a check, then attempting to roll the check, but then paying with cash. I was wearing my trenchcoat of invincibility, which had purely huge pockets, so I tucked the cabbage into one of them and some of Spike's food into others, leaving me able to wander with my gloves in my pockets and my hands above them, a posture that for some reason seemed cold. We looked like aliens walking down the street, identical fuzzy sockhats on our heads, carrying food and wearing Ray-Bans. But this was New York at wintertime, where most people don't give a shit what strange drugs you're using as long as you do so somewhat quietly and don't jump the turnstiles. Speaking of which, we had encountered the subway and, as snow danced repetitively ceaslessly uniquely, we descended the darkened staircase into the land of singing fluorescent tubes and dark bathroom tunnels with more fluorescence propelling them into eternity. It was late and so the train we picked didn't have many people on it; we could have sat, but we stood instead, glorifying the night with our uselessness, glorifying that incredible stretching ramble of thoughts spanning past the invisible horizon that we now rode a steel worm through, oblivious to anything beyond our warm coats but screaming with the ragged electric lights (spinning tracers like cotton candy) flying past us in our hellbent journey. Hell was there at the end of the tunnel with no end, along with death and redemption and the visualization of meaning, but hell was also six feet away, the stonewalls rushing past us and the faces seen in the reflection through two panes of glass from each spectral nebulous echoing light. Spike mumbled something about us being really stoned, but I knew that the continuation was forthcoming, and that there was nothing of not being alive in our particular form of deadness. A sword blade into the night, we traveled on, although travel is a deceptive word, as we weren't going somewhere but anywhere. "Freedom is what you take, what you create for yourself," I thought, and Spike nodded, as if he'd heard it too. Nothing stood in the way of the yellow light, and we rode until dawn, transposing the bowels and boundaries of our final city. [+!-=-!+] From: POMONA::SEDGWIDGE 14-NOV-1992 00:04:23.47 To: POMONA::CBLANC CC: SEDGWIDGE Subj: RE: [...] the undiscovered country/issue 1/07nov92 [...] I have Jane's Addictin lyrics buzzing through my head. Whoops! Can you spot the typo in the last sentence? Can you spot the typo in this sentence? {This is a submission to stoner adventures. THIS IS A REALLY FUCKIN POINTLESS MESSAGE>. It has no significance at al right now i want to listen to some arlo guthrie however the fuck you spell his name [-_-_-][/] "Change of Heart" - 1992 To twist my soul And extract the last Of which I thought I knew And was sure I'd lost Let us continue to build The most lasting of things Upon which we know Consists of lies and deceit And I'll ask myself this question Over and over again Shall I steal from Heaven To build another Hell? I stand at your feet And watch over as you slumber So peacefully, dreaming why You'd leave me alone another time It starts again The gray clouds roll in I turn to run, Trip and fall in this gaping hole My heart used to occupy And be content with my dreams l.b.n. [-<{.}>-] memory, two-faced bitch where once in gold is written pitch where once was bad now is some longing in times uncertain no memory's certain. outside my door is well-known ground, so well known from a furtive look I know the rules and nature that I ride, but in this pit of rue I suffer the quagmire, my eternal torment is memory's desire. s.r.p. [-.-.-][.(.).] "Montage" - 1992 He prays in silence and he asks again Conflicting truths only result in pain She looks his way as if to turn away The summer's green has been replaced with gray He'd like to claim the he doesn't care Upon the outside he knows they're all aware The only actor left on the stage Only existing because he's lost his place Her dual existence left him without life Now it's her turn to see the strife It took the pain to open up her eyes Burned all the paper with deceit and lies A comic illusion and a twisted past He felt no pain because he knew the path The distant one wanted to be near He cries for passion fell on distant ears There's no expression, there's no life at all The dying feelings and the gray of fall Among his certainty there is a doubt She was sincere and now he is without l.b.n. [/-/-/] pretty smiles, pretty lives, crossed my my barbed wire lashes irises drifting elsewhere, soon before the trees burst into flame before my world explodes in rage adrift as well, elsewhere bound, sneakers beat a solitary kicked-out trod, toes twitching in the cold, sadly crossing years, a broken watch, six minutes time, a photograph aged past my death, chilly here, the wind cuts deep, thoughts rushing like a fall, the leaves in eddies chase my feet, shadows warriors, painted, fierce: angular lights serve for bloodswords, some fingers blessed with a loss, unfeeling retracting to a doorway sour, I escape the wind, momentarily, before it blows within. s.r.p. [.:.:.] From: POMONA::BAKERSDOZEN 12-DEC-1992 17:05:17.21 To: CBLANC CC: Subj: moterfuccer I like sheep they are so deep they are quite fleet they sail with fleets they have fleece they are beet they are nice to eat and eat quite well when you peep so give it up my friend, try to send a blend of fine tobacco and sheep at your next meet ing. [~>~<~][..][.] too much is beautiful, rising the sun, a world to capture beyond my grasp, that ruined here watchful with two small friends all in all motion I cannot understand. contented wtih warmth and a slight loss of fear, abandoned my claims to the outer world, a mass of sepulchres holding within gather your feelings, take in your arms suddenly finding them empty on your sides, holding in bitter, insane laughter -- so fly to your pleasures graven in stone, I will be watching, outside, alone. s.r.p. [@*..*@] When I am lost and far beyond hope, will you reach for me and bring me back? I have to know. Can you have faith in me even when I have no faith in myself? If I'm wrong will you tell me, and if I'm right, will you praise me? If I were to fail, would you show me that I must reach past the failure and try again? Even when I make no sense, can you listen and try to understand? When my words are cruel, are you able to look past them to the hurt I am trying so hard to hide? Can you draw me out of my inner world and back into the sunshine? If I were to trust you without reservation, would you return my trust, never let me down, as I would never let you down? If so, then truly I love you, and you and I are friends... fern [/><\/><\] "Last Night" - 1992 I used to pray for The warmth from the blanket of night I could see my reflection clearly Among the darkness Now the fear slowly crawls in As the safety of slumber recedes The reflection is still transparent Yet the image is darker now I pick up my being and turn to run Tripping over her gravestone The pursuit begins again And the black soil flows with red Running away to futility I can't face the pain again Afraid to realize what The carbon-based chain stole her away The result of a blind accident And God's sense of fair play Listening to the fading breath Of His poisonous gifts The stones fall over one by one And the grass drops away beneath my feet As the gray turns to orange again In preparation for the longest day I open my eyes and cry Relief or good-bye? l.b.n. [.][.][.] [///](...) astride your invented future, throw open your aging portals, stare into the blackness pure, cast your eyes into slipping rain. tears left lost flowing in obscurity where it's dark over the continent, swarming eyes feel the rain, looking back on serrated memories, perhaps you might see the same. tears bereft flowing in the spanning gap into singing darkness throw your eyes, open scenes of sweet nightswarmth past, stare into the eyes left there, teeming night and silent rain. s.r.p. [///](...)[//-/] (rapesong) hands crossing like angels on her watered back her eyes shaded low & hiding in steam there in the greyness holding her head, an only companion a lump like a stone, bathed in resplendent water, redemption on the smallest scale, a mimic for something unknown, tears unknowing in so much debris, numbness is welcome but never arrives, once safely removed, all wounds must arise, seething under a gravel path of eyes, unsympathetic, a residue world, once inhaled deeply it cannot escape, wetting the eyes and burning lungs below, pimping for tears which never can flow. s.r.p. [({.o.})] If life is a dance, then you are the sweetest song I've ever heard. I sway gently to your tune, eyes closed, heart open, hands empty. You dance in and out of my mind, but you rarely take me in your arms, never dance with me. Even when I dance with someone else, it is to your rhythm, and I force them to hum the melody that we once knew. No wonder I never dance long, no two times with the same person. In my mind, I am dancing with you. I think you watch me dance, and you might smile. I dance for you. When I look back, you are gone... if you were ever really there at all. fern (./\.) (wednesday) wind in the sails, bottle half-full twotime screaming dogface bitch briny threads stretch toward the wood emblems of these shattered days amidst the leaves so soft as corpses ears before they are interred. streets are speaking under lights bodies fill them day and dark and move toward a lonely goal, the piston churns, the springs recoils. briny threads stretch toward the wood six days to get to Galveston. horizons swelling eyes in tears sun descending teams of gods sailor here i send my ship unbowed alone beneath sharp stars three golden earrings under sails yet one another given carelessly rope sings in the breeze, wind off the repentant sea. raped by generations unthinking of sorrows left in the wakes of their heedless decay now that the calf is dead, hope-filling slaughter we are inheritors of the rainslapped day. needles tossed in the surf our teeming mausoleums proudest, useless toys, drifting earth like pariah convoys, alien to nature, more secrets concealed, than every child masturbator blinded in his sanity. s.r.p. [|"".""|] (stoner record reviews) Godflesh - Cold World: This is the British grindcore band's newest release, a single in the classic industrial style of two songs and two remixes. Or alternate mixes. Whatever they are, the last three tracks are essentially the same song, so this ends up being a Godflesh song and then some protracted background music that doesn't vary that much. However, this release is important in that it gets back to more of the core of Godflesh: industrial emotion, harshness, a conveyance of rage and pain and fear and resignation. The sound has moved closer to the mainstream through the loss of the scratchy, hellish, deathlike vocals of past albums and through a newer tendency toward occasional mellowness through less reliance on the distorted guitar clawing of guitarist/vocalist Justin Broadrick (Napalm Death, Head of David, Scorn). The title track starts softly but then progresses into the power of full drum machine anger and distorted guitar, bringing back more of the feel of "Streetcleaner" than anything else. Many hardcore Godflesh fans may feel it's a sellout, but I value this release because it escapes the formulaic nature of some of their recent stuff. At least the band hasn't festered, despite Broadrick and bassist G.C. Green working on other projects, including the Mick Harris/John Zorn colaboration "Pain Killers." It's a newer start, a return, but most of all some hope for an otherwise stagnant band. Crowbar - Obedience Thru Suffering: This album comes from the Grindcore label, but it's the most mainstream grindcore I'd ever seen. This is the slow & heavy variety of grindcore, a more anguished, tortured and industrial souding doom metal, perhaps. Musically, it's competent, more complex than average grindcore and more precise, given the new opportunity for critical listening caused by the reduced speed. Heavy riffs populate these songs, often varying to great effect. Drumming is mainly routine, but has some interesting tempo changes. Vocals are harsh sometimes, shouted others, and sung still others, leaving a combination of the metal singing styles of the past twenty years. It's not hard to listen to, though, sounding somewhat accessible while still being far enough underground to attract the more serious fans. This album decreases as it progresses; I think it would have been better off as an EP, with some songs removed and others edited. It's still powerful, however, and also has the advantage of avoiding the clone state of being; this music has a new sound and a new appeal, which doesn't give it the automatic fan base most death metal or black metal bands can expect but leaves it with the potential to escape the cliches dragging these genres down. High hopes for the next release. Cathedral - Soul Sacrifice: Cathedral's doom metal heaviness comes out even further on this EP, where they leave behind the deadpan heaviness of the past and further develop their musical variation and melodic power. The first track is a new recording of the song by the same name on their "Forest of Equilibrium" album, done with more energy but no less feel on this release. After that, three new songs featuring Cathedral's powerful heaviness (reminiscent of Black Sabbath on heavier days) follow, making this almost as extension of the last album, which was no lightweight either. If you enjoy the music of Cathedral, a definite recommendation; if you don't know whether or not you want to hear heavy, churning, melodic yet growlish music, this is a safe investment to help you decide. [oO.Oo.] (woundspur) morning birthed of inexorable dawn eyes sliding open like sad ships on rocks nervous disciples my hands, a mind struck like steel submergent thoughts in swallowing light bitter chipped china and bitter black brew perched in blue fingers on hands growing old edges whitened around the thin cup; door falling open, the world falling in exuberant leaves swirl around me again choose the oblivious, take no more mind marching like mudslides my feet take the road wherever i wander, my mind will arrive, spending some hours on what there is gold then back to ponder, bent like a dead man then back to wander, get lost in the cold. midnight coffin reluctant touch reflection on the armored chest voice miasmas lost in sobs restrained like a dying beast chanting voice, electric dead metal femur slams into its joint lid collapsing, as i fall redundant. wound described curving sky morning before, recollections of redemption denied in a shower of silvery coins your wound detailed before the morning barely there, recollections of violence denying futures in a shower of spittle from words. bitter fingers clenched days undone bereft, they left-- paper shrouds for ten small servants crumpled, cigarette scar epitaph. our lovely hours lost in the sun maybe seconds in autumn maybe days, our years tearing so much like birth; except the birth of silence, and the wetness of soft hands in the chill of the early morning. s.r.p. [-=-=-] There once was a man who loved sheep He would dress up like Little Bo Peep With great care and great class He'd shave the wool 'round its ass Take his dick out and shove it in deep. tap [_-|-_] (sonnet) what is time, that is in a moment lost? defeated by a likeness floating on my palm, briefest eyes, hair to the cruel wind tossed this image brings me now to life in the calm in days of fall resembling faintly spring we left time behind under the bluest skies the world couldn't stop us; not a thing which could not be forgotten in her eyes transpired during that most sacred time winter came & through the cold and gloom our love grew as I was hers and she was mine something that strong must encounter doom time yanked the reins and strained our ties now time reigns again under these blue skies. s.r.p. "don't hold me/me/back/back...this is/my own hell" [././.][eof] ------------------------------------------------------------------------- To find out more about the anon service, send mail to help@anon.penet.fi. Due to the double-blind system, any replies to this message will be anonymized, and an anonymous id will be allocated automatically. You have been warned.