ship canal: please let me back into your house (19f3)

jesus this disc’s a misshapen peg for a malformed hole this week. glasgow, teasing winter, frotting spring. dreich. dour. schmeared in smirr. gunmetal greys and graffitied browns. the rain? the rain beats down like i’m an errant child, hissing with ponderous squall and silence. it’s not washing travis bickle’s scum off the streets. it’s a smallpox blanket, waiting; a damp shroud hanging over a languishing metropolis. this dole noise smothering, coming together with the city’s squat modernist folds in near pornographic symmetry.

this is the saddest story you can’t read. a great bleak melancholy of unspoken poetry. sure there’s language here and there, transformed. there’s, y’know, ‘songs’ and ‘titles’ for attaching meanings, however wrongheaded. yeah there’s a sense of (mis)understanding, of having wandered into the middle of something you don’t really get and now can’t leave.

there are stories, maybe formless amuxt these nonwords and discardia of junk sounds, fumbled together by means of a broke socialism. hanging together but coming apart. the interstitial between frozen in headlights and roadkill. that asthmatic pause before bad news sinks in. everything’s crumbling and broken down. there’s a wilfully damaged quality to ship canal.

okay so maybe not words. but sounds. noises: brooding, bewitching, an unclamourous glamour. echo’s busted open, grotty notes leaking like nosebleed. not verbs adjectives nouns spilling out but philip larkin locked in some sad senseless waltz. beats appear, sputtering like the dying heartbeat of a fucked relationship. fernow’s bermuda drain bombast, asbestos-stifled; fists of rage replaced with fading bruises. a yearning; light, breath, sleep, time, anything. brief bursts of musicality, radiant flux fritzing through a clouded troposphere.

gluey fever dreams of ted heath’s three day week. a melancholic ergotism from damp council house mould. pointillist reflections on small triumphs and relentless disappointments. there’s too much going on, there’s nothing going on. this fella, he has a story to tell. but (festering insight) there are no more stories to tell. just the same one, more battered and frayed with each recital.

19f3 / hand loom lament

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