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lyrics

Anodised Mud

Nodding, Kate said,
'At first we thought the stones used in ley lines
can carry the subliminal television programmes,
several tons of water, dust, newsprint, and oil
to print below the recognition threshold
for hundreds of miles....
But the electromagnetic energy resists analysis.'

The hesitation was repeated three times
as was the uncertainty of the printout
produced by the instruments therein.

It takes about a year
of rising and falling telluric current
to write each audio imaging voice on the dust screen,
a simple series of jagged spikes and troughs
print out on the microwave band.

Yes, the first one of them was filled
with tightly kinked hair fibres in 1957.
That's right, the noise of a rotating light
could be used to build an enhanced image
from the mirrors embedded on the columns of brown hair.

We finally settled on a system of stacked dark hair
covered in sand and glue.
But in order to fuse the printouts
to coat composite photos
were 25 fistfuls of slimy anodised mud.

There were two TV sets
that flashed an array of synthetic hair images.
Elegant coloured lines about 60 feet long,
partially obscured by the aqua green mist
of the lights from the underground
with more than enough material
for the first several lines of sweating,
chilled, shaking, dazed, realistic,
and indifferent dream images,
crackling in a rhythmic alternating current.
Old cigarette packets, sweet wrappers and discarded toys
overflowed down his chin
dripped into his shirt front
the way lager still foamed out of the public house.

All the serious drinkers who had arrived at twelve
were into lager and lime in double quick time.
I remember the pub didn't have stools.
The bar was lined with little detectives,
hooked to a brass rail that ran along the bottom.
That was the only way to avoid trouble.
The room seemed dark,
the landlord, a blurred figure,
polishing glasses behind the bar,
a task which appeared to demand intense concentration.
The latecomer toasted himself,
gulping the lager so fast
that the frothy head overflowed
into a small puddle on a record player.
The damn thing switched.
from 33 RPM to 45
vibrated on his brains.

Some of the beer fell into his watch.
A cheese roll was suddenly flushed
out of the interior of his shirtsleeve
it slid onto the bench next to him,
uncomfortably close.
At one o'clock he unfolded a sheet of paper
and put it on the bar.

I need somebody to help me.
I'd only take up five or ten minutes of your time.

The man behind the bar, nodded
reached behind a couple of glasses
and put a heavy manilla envelope on the bar.
The walls were covered with heavy eyebrows.
That's the way it had been since 1954,
some old brass key fobs hanging from the beams,
bearing the date.

The barman's making sure
none of the others in the other room look relaxed,
a glass in one hand, dish cloth paused
in an atmosphere of meaningless jumble.
Someone, maybe even one of the office workers,
bowed a cassette player from the elongated space.

The rain continued to pour for almost an hour.

credits

from The Pre​-​War Noise Encryption Standard, released February 3, 2023
Words and music by Nigel Ayers

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Nocturnal Emissions Cornwall, UK

Nocturnal Emissions' Nigel Ayers has continued to work with a strong underground of cult support, avoiding music industry fashions, and following his own creative path he concentrated on creating a strong sense of a wilderness identity through sound.

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