greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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Prolix, indeed.

One of the songs I'm really loving from Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds' Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!, behind the cut:





What we once thought we had we didn't, and what we have now will never be that way again,
So we call upon the author to explain.

Our myxomatoid kids spraddle the streets, we've shunned them from the greasy-grind.
The poor little things, they look so sad and old as they mount us from behind.
I ask them to desist and to refrain.
And then we call upon the author to explain.

Rosary clutched in his hand, he died with tubes up his nose.
And a cabal of angels with finger cymbals chanted his name in code.
We shook our fists at the punishing rain,
And we call upon the author to explain.

He said everything is messed up 'round here, everything is banal and jejune.
There is a planetary conspiracy against the likes of you and me in this idiot constituency of the moon.
Well, he knew exactly who to blame.
And we call upon the author to explain.

Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!
Prolix! Prolix! Nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!

Well, I go guruing down the street, young people gather round my feet,
Ask me things, but I don't know where to start.
They ignite the powder-trail straight to my father's heart,
And, once again, I call upon the author to explain

We call upon the author to explain.

Who is this great burdensome slavering dog-thing that mediocres my every thought?
I feel like a vacuum cleaner, a complete sucker. It's fucked up, and he is a fucker.
But what an enormous and encyclopedic brain.
I call upon the author to explain.

We call upon the author to explain.

Oh, rampant discrimination, mass poverty, third-world debt, infectious disease,
Global inequality, and deepening socio-economic divisions.
Well, it does in your brain.
And we call upon the author to explain.

Now hang on, my friend Doug is tapping on the window .(Hey Doug, how you been?)
Brings me back a book on holocaust poetry, complete with pictures.
Then tells me to get ready for the rain.
And we call upon the author to explain

I say prolix! Prolix! Something a pair of scissors can fix.

Bukowski was a jerk! Berryman was best!
He wrote like wet papier maché, but he went for Hemingway, weirdly on wings and with maximum pain.
We call upon the author to explain.

Down in my bolthole, I see they've published another volume of unreconstructed rubbish.
"The waves, the waves were soldiers moving."* Well, thank you, thank you, thank you.
And, again ,I call upon the author to explain.
Yeah, we call upon the author to explain

Prolix! Prolix! There's nothing a pair of scissors can't fix!




*"It was the battering of drums I heard
It was hunger, it was the hungry that cried
And the waves, the waves were soldiers moving
Marching and marching in a tragic time
Below me, on the asphalt, under the trees."

Wallace Stevens, "Dry Loaf" (1938)

Also, I adore this quote from an interview Nick Cave recently gave to the Sydney Herald Sun:

"My muse was such a bitch, I sacked her years ago. And now I just...I go into the...I mean she's so totally unreliable. You know, one day she'd be there, and two weeks later she might turn up again, and so on, and so forth. So, basically, I got rid of the whole concept of the muse and just went to work everyday. And it has absolutely nothing to do with whether I feel inspired or not. I just get up, go to my office, and start work. Sometimes things come, you know, sometimes things don't, but it's...I just feel that, at least if I turn up and I'm sitting there, and I've got a pen in my hand, whatever's going to come can come, and I'll be ready and prepared to write then."
Tags: music, writing
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