They’ve always lived in nowhere, circumlunar roads; in desolation, between forests, where the absence grows. The bombs are falling down in Dresden, the children hide their heads - the bombs are falling down in London, the lovers hide their dead, alive. How can they be gone, when they were alive? We’ve walked on their moon songs, and still I’ve heard their cries… We’re living on their old wrongs, the dead leaves rustle and writhe; nothing here but a long song. The treble wakes the sunrise (an errant moment), and then the dust turns into dunes (hallow the molting hour)… Still beneath out morning excise (from fevers with desire), such a travail waits, the hours will be exhumed. These architects who build the burning crosses - struck down in the silts of the iron shores - in the desert graves, diggers dance with wraiths, and the cities cursed by the oil awake; war paint intermingling with hues, an atavistic brush and you. The dead gods in the garden wilt, as though they were you; lying under the walls they built, the walls will bury you. The walls will bury you. The treble waits for sunrise (an errant moment), before the dusts turn into dunes (hallow the molting hour)… then beneath our morning excise (to fill you with desire), such a travail waits, the hours, still, exhumed. And they were alive. In nothing on the other side… when they were alive.
Across their second full-length, the London post-punks offer up thrumming motoriks, industrial tones, and sullen sing-a-longs in abundance. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 17, 2024
Its exquisite sense of order parallels that of a physical theory. Science is the organization of our knowledge in such a way as to command more of nature's hidden potential. Likewise do these notes command our coldbeats in step with our heartbeats. The Human Remains