Body of Habit / Visible Fissures EP

by Lost Lands

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1.
the inexorable body of meaning can be used and hung and bridled on through the dark forest of ambiguity so easily when the prostituted forlorn value so bold carries more weight than a shower rod can hold there is fracture I made those same mistakes No criticism no consciousness No acknowledgement No sentiment The notions oft reserved For the piled shells in rictus The most severe example offered A Gift coated business Applied in banal conversation At stride in humor and discussion to essentials turned absurd In a context underserved We sit in ether Where we’ve browbeaten the aura of the words what’s the matter that rubbing the poor itch of your opinion Make yourselves scabs? He that will give good words will flatter Beneath abhorring What would you have? you curs you fragments
2.
we celebrate together with wide smiled faces while the deference so long shoved off shows its obvious genesis and traces the floor falls out we sit at a distance with furrowed brows how could the fickle mass never so naïve to think they could relate to the tender faces shining from above and from their pockets oh how we love the spectacle of celebrity, trash royalty 100 years banished with barrel and rationality while the liberal with a small l weeps in front of the tv keeping your head down is not enough on days like these
3.
Transitory 02:08
I’m a candle burning I’m a candle burning at both ends Sometimes I’m a mess of wax Sometimes I’m barely even singed At war with our ideas At war with our ambition At war with the worthless vestiges Of tradition Sometimes I’m the elusive gilded praxis With action at hand And sometimes I’m a bullet-ridden theory that can barely stand But that’s the human smell Of failure and regret That all perfectionists seek to forget It’s the unity of contradiction And exhaustion, limitless That propagates the complication To do what we wish And that’s that human burn Of triumph over ideas over our ambition over the worthless vestiges Of tradition Of failure and regret Of triumph
4.
Evil 03:14
Rimbaud: while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring across the infinite expanse of day while red or green before their posturing king the battalions break and melt away the monstrous frenzy runs a course that makes 1000 men a smoking pile poor fools, dead in the summer grass on nature’s breast who meant men to smile replaced by wasted youth and wretched forms poor fools while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring across the infinite expanse of day while red or green before their posturing king the battalions break and melt away the monstrous frenzy runs a course that makes 1000 men a smoking pile there is a god who smiles upon us through the gleam of gold the incense-laden air who drowses in a cloud of murmured prayer and only wakes when weeping mothers bow empty when weeping mothers bow themselves in anguish and their last small coin into his coffer falls
5.
Siphoned through the filter Of acceptable analogy Through the oversimplified Romance and theology With no gradients Allows a pitiful acquiescence To a plot A sanitized narrative A nebulous ideal, artifice Of way the people never lived Why bother Standing on the shoulders of giants When it’s easier to fucking crawl Why think, why live When it’s easier to just exist
6.
what’s keeping everyone from responding in kind beaten to death in a parking lot or lifeless on a train in a plainly mercantilist trade where your loss is steadfastly their gain if you’ve got a bone to pick if you have any complaints you’ll have a comfortable spot to sit and wait if you have a larger agenda to serve to walk in your own town refusing to defer head up, undeterred there’s a grave with no name on it there’s a grave with your name on it in a cemetery city where the checks and balances insure that the fraternal brotherhood of the assholes you grew up with with a penchant for power and the absurd will continue to operate with impunity
7.
the ebb and flow of endless flat desire for ease dispense with labor handcraft, need the apex a clinical likeness a plastic quality divorced from the chest cavity that breathes and sleeps and sustains the nadir the dark matters of faculty the deepest trench of a valley floor where the ships of being are renewed piece by piece how long will it be created produced facilitated reduced replaced annihilated the fear stems and grows and blooms from the lump in the throat the drop in the gut a clean self image from a more perfect reflection of us
8.
Poor Maps 02:41
I’ve been a traitor I’ve ceded defeat the force of ego smashed underfoot and I’ve been weak I’ve been some places I can barely stand On a stretch of bad road so poorly planned Even the worst maps just reprimand Your false sense of direction That patina of suffering And trifecta of disconnection Man is tormented by no greater anxiety Than to find someone quickly To hand over the gift of autonomy And without this stable conception He would not consent to go on living And would rather destroy himself Than stay on earth Though he has bread in abundance

about

Combined "Body Of Habit" and "Visible Fissures" 7"s both released on Vitriol Records.

credits

released August 1, 2013

Recorded by Lost Lands
Mixed by Ryan Bram @ Homewrecker Studios
Mastered by Brad Boatright @ Audiosiege Sonic Engineering

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Lost Lands Los Angeles, California

Lost Lands is no more. Enjoy the tunes.

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