1. |
The Grey and the Green
05:29
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The Grey and the Green
Along the grey and green
checked heap of hills
the lambs are cast across
the land like dice.
Their sodden white whisps
cling and flicker
like cold flame caught
against the wind
Bellies stained they scrape
and spark likes coals
that burn for flames
they'll never see
A foot snags and cracks
as bone breathes in
the sky, tumbles down
and is left to die.
Cast aside by nameless
gods taking bets
on which way
the weather will turn.
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2. |
Old Man Mound
05:28
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Old Man Mound
Let your feet take you away
to where the city shoves
the hills to the sky, to where
bricks give no shelter, to where
Old Man Mound lies.
He sits stunted and sorrowful
brooding at the base
of greatness, slurping
at the dregs of a lake.
Clumps of copses cling
to his scalp like the
denial of age, faint wisps
of a youth that has been
swept away by the wind.
Some say his mother left him
and he had not the strenth
to climb. Or that one day
the hills conspired against him,
pricked him with a rams horn,
and he shrank
with a sigh.
Now he stoops beneath the sky
feet pass over him like years
his face work down
like the bottom of a boot
each step delaminating
dropping atoms
like tears.
I came across him long ago
my foot pressed upon his brow
two lunar craters slid open
and with a scowl his mouth slumped
to make a sound.
Lips of granite parted.
A boulder rolled and fell aprt like teeth.
And he sighed:
"I used to be a mountain you know"
But I looked no further
and the mound remained
a mound.
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3. |
The House
06:21
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The House
On the hill stands
a cracked-toothed curmudgeon
of a ruined house. It aches
in structural senescence
groanin gunder a spiteful sky
that drowns it's reproach
till it is left
a sodden wretch.
Draped in it's tattered
fineries. Weeping.
Wrecked walls shed the bonds
between bricks as one by
one they are lost
like memories to the past.
Frondescent fingers claw
through cracks and crumbs
of a body that bears
the vermiculation of neglect.
A home without a family
a family without mortar.
Forgotten.
I see it's lonely silhouette and wonder:
if I stood still for long enough
would I succumb to the same sorrow
and be left to disintigrate
in an open grave
under a lidless sky.
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4. |
The Scream
03:18
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The Scream
It started under a rock
first barely even a breath
It panted and sucked in the sand
that threatened to stifle,
it choked and it coughed.
From here that cough carried it to the trees
and through the leaves that shuddered
and slung it away.
Next, the sream landed on the back
of a blackbird and sought shelter
in its oil slick feathers.
The scream opened it's wings and set off.
From up high it could see all, and it saw
the man in slumber, his mouth drooped and ready.
It plunged deep into the open vessel
and it's fine feathers filled the throat
and it's talons wrapped around the vocal chords
and it bellowed.
Black and baleful into the night.
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5. |
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Winter Brings the Silence
As the sunlight sighed
and succumbed to the solstice
the cold crept in and
crawled down the valley
like some starved beast
wrapping it's claws
around the heart of the house.
Grey stones stood still
like sky solidified and set
firm like blocks of ice.
The windows cracked and mapped a
network of roads across the horizon
escape routes set dead
against the confines of it's corners
and the ever watchful spiders.
Inside there was a family
built of brittle bones and
backs bent from hardship.
Furtive eyes fearful
and paper skin stretched
taught like a drum, beating,
counting down to their end.
They waited out the winter
in silence and stiffness
for at the mercy of winters
rage, there was nothing else.
No hope
No gods, old or new
Just the terrifying indifference
of the turning of time.
Then it got into the house.
Shards of window scattered and fled
as the wind screamed through
Frosted fingers tracked
along the masonry joints
like rivers of ice.
The rats chewed through what little
they had, leaving their ragdolled
forms to freeze in a slow death
and they ate their eyes last,
because all they had ever seen
was darkness.
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Wooden Lungs England, UK
Synth music inspired by the calm, quiet and lonely places of England.
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Welp, your Another Path just made my wife cry. Thanks for that.
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Contrary to the grim artwork, Wandeweorpe is a very comforting and introspective experience. I feel like slowly walking alongside a still lake in the dark winter months, taking in the cold and fresh air of an overcast sky as slivers of hope and serenity pass by me. A very uplifting and freeing feeling. Maybe the cover isn't all that discordant after all and wading through the dark reaches is a necessary step towards grasping the light.
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Where the Grey Mist Parts
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I really liked this album which in my opinion is the Woodland Crypt best achievement ! It's a perfectly immersive whole, from start to finish, where you feel like you're drifting into the heart of abandoned forest ruins, in the depths of stopped time. One of the best Dungeon Synth releases of late. All simply magnificent.
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Anthology II: Movie Themes 1976-1988
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Get ready for Halloween with this riotously fun post-punk record from Philly’s Evil Sword.
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Winter Ghost Tales
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Harsh but also dreamy. Like winter itself.
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