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There’s not a thing that’s out of place.
A flat line, round face.
There’s nothing left that’s hear to see
but matrices of human grief.
Here find the creator, consumed by his work,
materials strip the subject of worth,
no look of discomfort, just a matter of fact,
an impersonal piece, don’t overreact.
How did he get up there? Strung up by a plank,
straight into his stomach, his face drawn a blank,
just hanging there lifeless, blood rush to the head,
not quite at the bottom, at least then he could rest.
Then he could rest. “It’s only progressed.”
We’re all caught in the web,
so sublime and ultimate.
Inspired by the grim absurdities of the here and now, the Chicago post-punks power through their fourth album with a primal urgency. Bandcamp... Album of the Day May 24, 2021