1. |
O Desejado
05:56
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Know you my name? Know you my name?
The Sleeping One, the Hidden One, Desired One…
Know you my name?
Each woman and man,
Here in the undulate, smiling pan,
Valley green, chosen land,
Dreaming a lack of me…
Paint me my picture,
Make me my movie,
Sing me my song of me,
Carve me in stone.
These are a few of my binding conditions
To wake from my sleep and return to the throne.
Hang me now, hang me now,
And look on you how
Spills the grain, feeds the sow,
All is ample, hang me from your mantle,
Sing the song of me,
The bronze and azure
And the limitless sea,
Bloodied was I
But they never found me,
Sing me the song of me…
Write me my story,
Render me photographed,
Play me my symphony,
Carve me in stone.
These are a few of my binding conditions
To wake from my sleep and return to the throne.
It could be so much lovelier,
All of it much better,
Lovelier and better ways
To do a thing,
Wake up your Sleeping King!
I’ll come alive
And wreathe you about my being,
All I’ve seen in the centuries
Abandoned to me,
Can you imagine my name?
Paint me my picture,
Make me my movie,
Sing me my song of me,
Carve me in stone.
These are a few of my binding conditions
To wake from my sleep and return to the throne.
Call me by my name,
Give me my mission,
Sing me my song of me,
Carve me in stone.
These are a few of my binding conditions
To make my ascent and return to the throne.
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2. |
German Beer
03:47
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I collect dead krauts along the bends of the Elbe,
I only see ghosts, they only see me,
I am a son of nowhere and nothing,
I hang by Augustus in the Blasted Tree,
and my mad burning hands are the conductor’s envy,
and in the Zwinger yard the ghosts of fine people sway
to the virulent music the white liquor lends me
we dream of the Green Vault’s hideous display.
I collect dead krauts along the bends of the Elbe,
and by the day’s end I have a filthy coin cup
enough to get me falafel, a curry, a pide
and kill a bunch of fresh krauts and get fucked up
and then the river dreams of the bodies in its bed
and then the stones feel all 3000 degrees
and in the Zwinger yard swords go flying overhead
and the dainty fat tourists go crook in the knees.
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies,
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies.
Pale, poisoned fish by the banks of the Elbe,
strewn in the reeds, belly up to the sun,
Some afternoons in Summer I lie in the shade
of the black tower bricks and I count every one,
But my spiralling mind is unequal to the edifice,
I vertigo in just looking at my shoes,
and in the yard of the people’s ghost palace
they send the guard out to have me excused
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies,
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies.
In the ghost people's palace all the fine people sway
Dreaming of the Green Vault’s hideous display,
I collect dead krauts along the bends of the Elbe
Day after day after day after day…
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies,
So you get born with this skin and these eyes,
So you get silence when one of us dies.
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3. |
Hill of Muses
04:02
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So high on the Hill of Muses
A crazed pine needle man
with olive teeth from a mythical heath
came bursting forth,
An Atlas of bruises, hair of sedge,
Just speaking me off the vibrating ledge,
I’ve been aloof for so long now
I fell like I was born knowing how.
I went to the Hill of Muses to listen
for what the sexless and loveless are missing,
Athenian youth in the grottoes a kissin,
Ancient nuns lookin on and hissin,
A bumblebee on a hyacinth,
a stray in the shade of Diana’s plinth,
dance music in the sight of the Parthenon,
night vomit baking in the furious sun,
But later in the unmade library,
When all the dregs have been filed away,
The Athenian Feline Congregation
Set about its recreation.
In truth all the Muses are locked below
in the chapel where no flowers grow,
and are most days silently pleased to be
scrubbing in the Byzantine stones on their knees,
For the height of Summer favours
a fury of cicadas,
hot piss of the ages mulled in caves -
a light lace, a gamey come,
fleet coronas of an ancient sun,
The perfume of Arcady’s one
for creatures who are hot or young or shady or up or in
for getting undone.
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4. |
Malagrotta
05:48
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Brave Little Boot had impossible loot, impossible loot
did dashing Little Boot,
How his sick sparrow sings of sorrowful springs,
Six sad springs, full of sorrowful sings.
How he kept it in a cave by the sea,
Many parties in the cave had he.
Of time and of tide there’s no doubt,
That’s what the sad song’s about - rubbish in, rubbish out.
Old King Coal had a filthy old hole, a filthy old hole
did the merry King Coal,
and many merry moments made his majesty,
reaching all around and pulling it free.
And he called on his fiddlers three,
“Make a ballad of my infamy.”
What do you think they did sing?
What strains in the praise of a king?
Rubbish out, rubbish in.
You don’t want to know
How does the garden grow.
Many merry moments are merrier made
When you leave the party with the bills unpaid.
Into the cave’s malevolent mouth
We will all go a’shilly shallyin’ south.
What a to do to die today,
But the dragon is on its way.
Whether the weather is hot,
Whether the weather is loud,
Whether we like it or not,
We’ll be together -
Rubbish in, rubbish out.
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5. |
A Walk Along the Tiber
05:19
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Mama come and clean for your children
cook them sprouts and greasy liver
mama can’t do one or the other
can’t you see she’s in the river?
Spinning, floating clots and skeins
ample fats and every fibre
Scattered now her soils and grains are
spread across the roiling Tiber
If I can be all by myself
and let the people pass me by
As I walk along the Tiber, not quite laughing not quite crying
Mama witness this play along the river
Passion is a fruit or a flower
wilting in the noon day sun
never lasting more than an hour
She flutters her eyes at the passers by
Their eyes are cameras firing reels
He sniffs at her neck and ogles her breast
like he’s eyeing a dish of perspiring veal
When all of us are dead and gone
the humours will align
and the moon and sun will vie for Rome
and make her bones to shine
The young vagrant cradles his ripe belly tumour
writhing in the wilting typha
For his Mama cry and keen
Beneath the Ponte Palatine
Mama cannot make you dinner
Mama won’t be cleaning either
Scattered now her soils and grains are
spiriting all away…
I can be all by myself
and hear the breezes softly sighing
As I walk along the Tiber, not quite laughing not quite crying
All of us are dead and gone
and the humours will align
the moon and sun will vie for Rome
and make her bones to shine
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6. |
Horn of Plenty
05:22
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Carpe diem Pulcinella, how’s about the dolce vita?
Did you drive on sweet Campania, sail the gulfs in pretty barks?
Did the women come to meet you,
Flocks of geese and hens to greet you
and kindly guide you to the bar…
To seize the day?
You were servant in the city, sticky slap out every doorway
In the mists of sweet Arcady you were Bacchus of the Valley
Through the villas of the wealthy, through the stalls of wine and honey
Music from the Horn of Plenty played…
Seize the day
Dancing in your filthy streets, a forced and constipated shuffle
Cigarettes and rotting meats, a lace of shit around your ruffle
All your children hide their sins, Sunday to the prayer house go
Like your little narrow bins, witness the overflow…
To seize the day
Your picked at bones will up and gather
After last evening’s slather
The state of things through eyes of yellow
What say you little fella?
The house wine always wins
sad yokes in bloody rims
The Horn of Plenty sings…
You’re done for, paid for, put to paid, this is the world they’ve always made
What potency is left there in your sly and silly little grin?
What shall we do now Punch is drunk
and strung out in the Old Town?
Who’ll pull upon the monster’s trunk…
and turn the tables upside down?
Carpe diem Pulcinella, how’s about the dolce vita?
Did we do all that we could do to break the banks and kill the monster?
Carpe diem gets away on the late breath of old Pompeii
which carries honey piss and hay…
Seize the day
Like there’s no tomorrow.
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7. |
Irrational Anthem
03:14
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Trust you remember to forget
Every day is remembrance day
As for the wounds that fester yet
Trust in time they’ll fade away
To make us love our country
Our country must be lovely
Spring comes in the winter now
And the people don’t know how
to feel about it or reconcile
with sunny days that don’t make you smile
To make us love our country
Our country must be lovely
Trust you remember to forget
All the holes in the safety net
True kindness never wore a veil
and there’s always blood along the trail
So listen close to a nation’s song
for all the notes of oblivion
the missing verse on the tip of your tongue
Trust you’ll never hear it sung
To make us love our country
Our country must be lovely
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8. |
All Along the Isar
01:54
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Summer is over,
And all along the Isar people
amble sad or idle down,
The sky is still and grey.
Summer is over,
But other things are over too,
You look to him and he to you,
This is a mournful day.
Summer is over,
And all along the Isar people
begin to set their minds to work,
and banish thoughts of play.
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9. |
Napoleon is Colour Blind
02:59
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Napoleon is colour blind
All the fields are burgundy
Winter is a foreigner
Blood is the season Spring
There's a poppy in the roses
It's fit as a reminder
Caesar liked the poppy
when it opened its head
A mile of bloody corpses
Is an emerald horizon
and a field of budding clover
is a station of the womb
A long white sky
and a wide clay sea
and a gleaming red cliff
beckoning to me
A long black hall
where there has never been anyone at all
for its feature is erasing
Any vibration
Napoleon is born again
In the little minds of men
It can't be stopped
it can't be helped
it's just the thing we do.
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10. |
Every Song a Miracle
04:30
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By the mute auditorium
Of the buried urn recitals
He attends the crematorium
Lighting furnaces with icicles
The Saint of Fakes is lyrical
And every song a miracle
The material is difficult
Coming as it does from a cold, cold place
And very far from ‘beatifical’
Every rhyme written is a memory erased
The Saint of Fakes is lyrical
And every song a miracle
Praise be, praise be
Water into wire
Icicles to fire
Come see, come see
How the streams all hurry up the hill to me
All the beasts know where to go
To the mouth of the melancholy cave
To see the ice into fire go
And see their shadows all misbehave
The Saint of Fakes is lyrical
And every song a miracle
Praise be, praise be
Water into wire
Icicles to fire
Come see, come see
How the streams all hurry up the hill to me
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11. |
This
02:15
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They say I lie or feign
In all I write.
It's simply that I feel
Via imagination.
The heart I never use.
All I dream or live,
Whatever fails or dies,
Is no more than a cover
Over some other thing
Where true beauty lies.
That's why I base my writings
On things remote,
Freed from my reality,
And serious about what isn't.
Feel? Well that’s up to you.
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12. |
This Ought To Do It
03:13
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O how will I ever pay my cemetery bills?
I wondered as I rode along the Tempelhof grills
Beneath the vampire sun behind the pork smoke for days
Through the fields of the dead dressed in tropical glaze
The air did whistle, atrocities dropped,
Dripping bone bracket city
with a hip static gristle pop pop pop pop
All the cities of the old world belch their mourning breath
And whisper to the firmament ‘O let us have our death’
All the years of being trod upon, the shit we have to eat,
Let the vines be the drapes and draw on every street
A play of summer lightning from on Letka Park
Inside a Prussian blue front casting Prague into dark,
Illuminates a church with all monkeys rolling through it,
This late stage gibbering menace ought to do it…
To do it, to do it, This ought to do it…
In a little emerald room inside a goodly ochre house
Where he writes like a lion and sings like a mouse,
On a little uptight island by a large unhappy island
All his efforts bend to flying to the old ghost world
For here in the antipodes they say it’s in your head
When you’re supposed to feel lucky but you mostly feel dead.
How fast my last European fever flew,
I’d like to walk you all through it, but I guess this ought to do it…
To do it, to do it, This ought to do it…
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13. |
Mules (Bonus Track)
02:03
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My memories rise up from the deep,
swollen and pale they bobble
in the shallows of sleep,
shameful and incomplete.
My memories may wander the streets,
after the bars and night clubs of my dreams
are closed,
may gather and meet…
and refuse to be mules
for the things I’ve done,
and propose to remember no-one.
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Augie March Melbourne, Australia
Over the last 25 years, few Australian bands have enjoyed a synergy of critical and commercial success like Augie March. Their songs are heard on almost every radio format in the country - with gold and platinum albums to their credit - yet they remain iconoclasts, perennial outsiders. ... more
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