Explorers 6

by Tom Milsom

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released September 20, 2011



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Track Name: Smell
Memories are kept inside that
Mountain on your face that I could
Break you're almost there I almost
See it in the air if it could talk

I can't remember what it's called
I can't remember what they called it
Track Name: Cherub
Ezekiel was calm and quiet as the wind
Before he said what he said
And as he turned away your happy baby eyes
Stared through his head

Sing, sing the revelations that you see
Swoop among the people and take heed
Cherub you are terrifying me

A horde of huge hallucinations
Carry out the holy deed
All-seeing replicating wheels
Aflame with fervour carry me
But who am I

Sing, sing the revelations that you see
Swoop among the people and take heed
Cherub you're proselytising me
Track Name: Live In Spite
I don't want to live in this way any more
Everything is fine
I don't want to live in spite of it all
When there is nothing on my mind

I don't want to live in spite of it all
Track Name: Lines
Did a line off your chest and it made me feel better
When we were losing physicality and untethering ourselves
The fragile alpine freshness after sickness beckons
Where a song can naturally unfurl
Without the pain of hitting the shelves

Leave a dusty trace of everything you do in your wake
A greying map of your activities and all of your mistakes
Don't leave your troubled friend behind
I'll know what to do when I've learned all my lines

There's a lion in your chest and it makes you feel better
Like you're regaining your virginity by commanding me to heal
Tell me I'm wrong again, tell me it's wrong to skirt around reality,
I'll never learn unless it's more uncomfortable for me not to feel

Leave a dusty trace of everything you do in your wake
A greying map of your activities and all of your mistakes
Don't leave your troubled friend behind
I'll know what to do when I've learned all my lines

Now I'm lying on your chest and it makes me feel better
Now I've lost all my integrity these problems right themselves
And if a frenzy kicks about amidst the susurrus
A lonely editorial can never hurt and only time will tell
Track Name: Faster
I'll be back in my own time
You've got your reasoning and I've got mine
Bulldozing minds, problems unsolved
Working me faster and losing control

Anxious to please everyone there
Two distinct entities up in the air
Time on your hands, space in your head
Tear them apart and do nothing instead

There is a panic in the air,
The air responds by almost effortlessly liquefying
If you move faster everywhere
A crack appears around your head no moving, no complying

There is a panic in the air
A pillow pushed upon my face and then the day is dying
If you move faster everywhere
The day is gone, the day is gone
Track Name: Fiberglass Baby
So you’ve had a nightmare, and a nightmare of such slow burning blood poison that you don’t even realise it’s a nightmare at first, the memories in your head chased the next night by the memories in your gut, like a physical grinding inside you, like something stuck to your stomach lining, like the memory of something you ate that day or memories of girls that make the walls of your thudding muffled heart grow tight, hidden for years and greeting you at night and now you realise what nightmare it was even though at the time you thought it was fine. And that’s the part that troubles you most. It was fine at the time. Not a single switch flicked in your somniferous state to your usual paranoid reaction to such transparent hurt or hate or crime. No recognition that anyone in your prefrontal cortal phosphene sphere had made a mortal overstep of any major mark or crossed a line. It was totally fine at the time. And so again, your slowly overtaking subconscious takes you for a ride while you lie, dark, devoid of sight and sound, through the experiences of last night. Up from the ground where there stands your heir, a boy so pale the blood inside him makes him shimmer, translucent and afloat. And both of you bathed in amniotic light you kind of try communicating. But this is the future you’re referring to, a fantasy that fades and leaves you half aware in the half light, alone. You’re present now, and correct. You start walking, fast and mathematically perfect. Almost insect-like, but just ectomorphic and slightly panicked, unable to connect the fantasy you just experienced to your current predicament. You need to find your child, that’s the bottom line. But then in this crepuscular place it’s very hard to see the bottom of anything, much less get there without risk of falling in the thick of it. Light is dispersed and dies before conclusions can be made. And so you keep on wandering, and making your decisions based on half blind faith, and moving, where possible, away from shade.

This next bit seems fast-forwarded for you, as though observing it on tape and not being in there exploring toward this unknown cause, but safe to say, phantasmic coexisting frames of narrative aside, you wander for quite an extensive uneventful while, until every direction you decide to take, bearing in mind your almost phobic aversion to shade, has to be based on which is the less dark of the available sides. Eventually you find an open space awash with the same amniotic half light you began in, blinding now in the context of the last few hours, tentatively fumbling through passages barely lit at all, so you blink and let your pupils find their balance. And there’s your fiberglass baby, paint white and flaky in the air, tensile and watertight and every seamless ridge familiar to you with reeling clarity. The tiny pulse of something inside, keeping its unmoving inconclusive form alive for its selfish self and nothing more. You take it to your body as of habit. Clutch it. Let off small asbestos puffs from pressure applied to its opaque and dusty plaster body. It occurs to you that you don’t know where its head is. And you look for its face, try to find its eyes, but they’re nowhere to be seen, just constant soundless circular white. You rotate the baby in your hands, agitated, and uncertain which way is up until it slips from your inquisitive grip and hits the floor, frozen a split second after impact, and a hundred stony chunks skittery and chalk dry and terrifyingly unalive. Sinking resignedly down, you staring after it until it sails so far into the nighttime darkness, even this light can’t land upon its stark whiteness. And you’re left focusing on the black where it was, eyes as good as closed, lying in the dark where your memories left you, trailing off into a clean and relatively definite morning, overwriting last night’s excitement with present realities that may or may not soon need remembering, but overwritten or otherwise, hardwired into you are these feelings, the easily swallowed specifics of the story wrapped in something indigestible. A decaying clock that waits for you to reach next night’s carbon dark half life to take the time to tell you with a subverbal strike how unfine times can be. lying there still unopened watching imagined light dance geometric over your eyes recalling how it hits a hundred sinking stones before they get forgotten by the darkness and you sleep.