Dave Migman and Audiothrillseeker - These Are Not Tears

from by The Hermetic Library

/

about

These Are Not Tears
(Audiothrillseeker/Migman)

Music and mixing was performed by Australian musician Audiothrillseeker conjures the essence of the words by Dave Migman, adding, as all good music should, a further, profound dimension.

Dave Migman:

Dave Migman is a prolific writer of poetry and dark fiction. There is a novel entitled The Wolf Stepped Out, a sort of urban ‘Inferno’, and there is also a spoken word album called ‘Sheol’, an artistic collaboration with Serbian musician Spleen Erebus. There are also many pomes and stories scattered over the vast, immeasurable space of the cyber realm.

Much of Dave’s recent work reflects his love for travel and his engagements with an animate, mythological reality. For twenty years he has earned a living by carving stones in Edinburgh, Scotland. He draws his inspiration from a vast reference base culled from various obscure sources over the past two decades. There are Celtic, Pictish, Viking, Neolithic and many more besides. In doing this he also explores ancient mythological threads that reoccur in various cultures. All this bears influence upon his art and writing.

Follow Dave Migman via anthology profile
hermetic.com/anthology/profile/dave-migman/

Audiothrillseeker:

A collection of provoking tunes stirred up from the depths. Heavily improvised images, themes, moods, mythologies and esoterica including collaborations in sound design/music and poetry also sound designs and music compositions for film and TV.

Follow Audiothrillseeker via anthology profile
hermetic.com/anthology/profile/audiothrillseeker/

lyrics

our dissolution runs in rivulets
down our cheeks begging
forgiveness from the hollows
of our misinterpreted lives
in our solvency, inadequacy
the pieces dissolving, the jigsaw
is a kaleidoscopic craze
in which we seek fresh patterns
to imbibe meaning into each strata
as we struggle onwards
sometimes laughing, sometimes crying
but always now apart
longing the halcyon fantasy
that marks the narrative of
our passing
you are a stingray spike through a tongue
you are turquoise embedded in flesh
an old man gasping for air
on a Mediterranean night.
Everything you touch ignites or dies.
there was no diversion from the sound
they were diametrically exposed to each other
he sat, immobilised, as the cello
drew powder from his bones
and the chanter rang the chambers
of his heart like a sonorous bell
can’t say I want the stress of your
disaster freaking up the warp of my weft
the April sun is drying out the shingle
the plane arrows the apricot dusk
I have several blessings to count
Several to curse, several to discount
Another beer to fudge the balmy
cunt and feed the bastard night alive
again to curse, to drop, to fall
Do they laugh at our freakish dance?
Surely we are casting doubts upon
The paradigms of their contrivance
For it is their ‘shit’ not ours, and
Though I do not doubt our insanity
I also consider theirs more virulent!
Ours is that of imbeciles drunk on
The scant passion of moments past
Clinging to our obsession with the
Temerity of limpets – the bastion
Of faith and faithless, dreams
Or emptiness, the sun hollers
Through the pink, some one is drowning
In the silence of the ocean

credits

license

all rights reserved

tags