Lost Lands -Body of Habit

by Lost Lands

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02:08
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03:14

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Spit between Vitriol Record (VIT035) and Man In Decline Records. Coming soon in physical form.

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released January 1, 2014

Shay- Guitar
Bruce- Bass
Eagle- Drums
Justin- vocals

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Vitriol Records Los Angeles

Write what you want to read, play what you want to hear.

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Track Name: Body of Habit
the inexorable body of meaning
can be used and hung and bridled on
through the dark forest
of ambiguity
so easily
when the prostituted
forlorn value
so bold
carries more weight
than a shower rod can hold
there is fracture
I made those same mistakes
No criticism no consciousness
No acknowledgement
No sentiment
The notions oft reserved
For the piled shells in rictus
The most severe example offered
A Gift coated business
Applied
in banal conversation
At stride in humor
and discussion
to essentials
turned absurd
In a context
underserved
We sit in ether
Where we’ve browbeaten
the aura of the words
what’s the matter
that rubbing the poor itch of your opinion
Make yourselves scabs?
He that will give good words will flatter
Beneath abhorring
What would you have?
you curs
you fragments
Track Name: Hereditary Marsh
we celebrate together
with wide smiled faces
while the deference so long shoved off
shows its obvious genesis and traces
the floor falls out
we sit at a distance
with furrowed brows
how could the fickle mass
never so naïve to think
they could relate
to the tender faces shining
from above
and from their pockets
oh how we love the spectacle of celebrity, trash royalty
100 years banished with barrel and rationality
while the liberal with a small l
weeps in front of the tv
keeping your head down is not enough
on days like these
Track Name: Transitory
I’m a candle burning
I’m a candle burning at both ends
Sometimes I’m a mess of wax
Sometimes I’m barely even singed
At war with our ideas
At war with our ambition
At war with the worthless vestiges
Of tradition
Sometimes I’m the elusive gilded praxis
With action at hand
And sometimes
I’m a bullet-ridden theory
that can barely stand
But that’s the human smell
Of failure and regret
That all perfectionists seek to forget
It’s the unity of contradiction
And exhaustion, limitless
That propagates the complication
To do what we wish
And that’s that human burn
Of triumph
over ideas
over our ambition
over the worthless vestiges
Of tradition

Of failure and regret
Of triumph
Track Name: Evil
Rimbaud:

while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring
across the infinite expanse of day
while red or green before their posturing king
the battalions break and melt away
the monstrous frenzy runs a course
that makes 1000 men a smoking pile
poor fools, dead in the summer grass
on nature’s breast
who meant men to smile
replaced by wasted youth
and wretched forms
poor fools
while the red stained mouths of machine guns ring
across the infinite expanse of day
while red or green before their posturing king
the battalions break and melt away
the monstrous frenzy runs a course
that makes 1000 men a smoking pile
there is a god
who smiles upon us through
the gleam of gold
the incense-laden air
who drowses
in a cloud of murmured prayer
and only wakes
when weeping mothers bow
empty
when weeping mothers bow
themselves in anguish
and their last small coin
into his coffer falls

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