The murazzi have paled
The terrain maps the last station
I sat alone waiting for the self-erasing man
Surrounded by essays on nature
Reeking of an antiquated notion of mind
“The mechanical are mere mirrors of an old and ancient taste for blood”
But the man never arrived
And I was left alone
To decipher the mercurial and pale elastic code
This symbolic mess
A bleak and brittle liquid silt
A night which hides the sediment
A map whose paths are malleable and point out the horizon
The lines that intersect to form the sun
And wouldn’t it be nice if we were marred by the sight
As the sun dissolves into a withered black disc?
A series of edits erases the extras from the scene
The lens is distorted
The film stock is for shit
I peeked at the regress
It was finite, so what are you still doing here?
It’s only tones that wreck your cacophony, darling
The noumenal moon patiently mentions
“Right on the side of a chora marked ‘destination’,
We need a few good men to generate steam out of light”
But the group would not allow it
And in twenty-seven years, the district’s overrun with panic
From the proof of the song
The cityscape’s a pale limp palimpsest
A “c”
A deleted wreck
And what rough beast speaks so suddenly of streaks of seemly light?
A silent caesura poised to fissure, fractures will rewrite
Perhapsy’s latest—which is also available on translucent cyan vinyl—draws from shoegaze & dreampop, and tells a wrenching true story. Bandcamp New & Notable Dec 1, 2018