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from Excavations in Substation by Nigel Ayers

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lyrics

A blurred mass of hair and muscle claws and struggles with his zipper and tries to knock him out of his chair.
I made a list of the order of the photos I picked from the pile, and for a little while there, I had shaken loose the screws holding the scrap of memory in place.
Crash into the charcoal, jagged peaks dribble something old and brittle, a capsule of nothing but emptiness.
After this came three pages of wiggling, wormy lines.
Before they were swallowed up by the mist, I was meeting a meeting of minds.
I started jabbering on about the busy village, little dogs and hieroglyphs.
And within minutes, we agreed a single paragraph that seemed to sum up the video project. And within a week, after further exchanges on the phone, produced a 24-page photocopy document.
He listened and studied, and thought he heard chimes, but the sound turned out to be a low whistling howl.
Can anybody hear me?
I know you've got the world's best equipment, helping to check out a rippling reflection in water, reflected twice.
Shaggy and stained with the impression of people and their real-life stories.
There was no response, only indifferent silence, crackling the air of the Cornish coast.
Then he realized they were eyes, the eyes of his own self-hatred, all dripping off the edge of the sill.
A gleaming metallic object hovered
the documents were what you were looking for,
you found the diagrams didn't you?
I rolled off the couch and cradling the aerosol cans a dozen pairs of glowing green eyes were clinking like glass.
To stare a slice of wildness.
He could spend an eternity studying this fascinating backwash,
Taking notes in his notebook which was full of fine watercolours of tear gas packages, short-haired German men and French women.
Every day, requited love, lifelong love, and the wrong love.
A wave of revolution lifted him.
He took the photograph of frothing waves from me, scanned it, and turned the TV off.
Then at 10 o’clock I stopped looking at the photograph and pushed lightly, I thought this might help
Northeast, southeast, southwest, northwest, a large work table separated the largest part of the main room from the tacked-on cable and wireless technology just inside the doors.
And a small canister of liquid from a tiny administrative centre across the grass
The master tapes from last night were blanked out and lost in a parking lot
As the helicopter slowly rose up into the air they stopped at the end of the tunnel and filled the shopping cart
But what was it the guy had said on the phone?
Focus your thoughts by not thinking, he grinned
They found off scraps of ventilation duct coming out of the soft-edged bulletin board
She asked if she could sleep
The only power came from batteries
Rattling the recorded tapes
They got out of the pick-up and pushed their way through a dense thicket that blasted out windows
the opening was covered with a dull silver windshield
she spun around on the toes of her low heeled shoes
Outside night had fallen in inky finality, as if it never thought you were interested.

The blinds of the windows were pulled shut, giving the crumbling office complete privacy.
Of course, her gaze, through the slats on the closet door raise the hair that had flashed on the screen.
Holding her breath and crouched behind some boxes
she watched it go down, slowly, as far as the eye could see.
She slid her gaze to the sculpture, her sculpture revealed in her headlights.
The original idea of mixing backtalk from the two old gals and up to twenty peculiar habits of the American young.

credits

from Excavations in Substation, released February 2, 2024

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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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