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lyrics
I buried Isis on the second Sabbath day in May, in a gravelly grave that was savagely paved over. The ravages of age sold her out. Her chest cavity cave-flame reduced to smolders, then doused. The life-long search for the right psalm verse. Isis, pale waif, time traveler, couldn't survive a stalemate with a blind saboteur. A slight ageless man got by on trickle-down remnant wisdom. A wingless bat with a bent will to catch the scent of a victim.
He was known as Charley the 3rd. His eye sockets were sly pockets of pestilence. In his presence one could hear the wind of sprockets and cry of the odd process of navigation by constellation. For that reason, he despised rockets. Satellites lead him to his maker meeting, a fleeting of feet. Charley the 3rd was sweetly flattered, his soul pattern was captured by a Haitian bone rattler.
Morath, the color of ash, dwelled the mainland in vengeance, selling quick revenge and odd skeletal amendments. He fell in with a squad of malevolent headsmen. Played them false as a healer, produced mushrooms from dung that freed their minds from the cloudy poison to which they clung. Morath was headed north, but a curse obscured his course. A hungry shade chased him forth. And since he joined the band of braves, the headsmen lost a man a day. Not until 80 reduced to 3, did the remaining headsmen see Morath had played them ill. By then, the curse had drank its fill. Morath was free to flee, the headsmen thrice deceived, across the straights of Panama, lured by an enchanted song.
The stricken Haitian quickened pace when the music began to fade. He realized time wasn't on his side when the melody began to die. He chewed coca leaves and slept an hour a day, burned sage to keep opposing powers at bay. As he made his way thru the barren plains, and under the spell, heard the story told of his own return to glory. Still water after 27 days and nights' wander. He plunged in and set a ripple, without the strength to ponder the music crescendo. Behold, the song-spell's author held Morath bound with a pen stroke. It is I, the Monk of mercy and wrath, here to atone for your blood thirsty path. I snatched the bones he carried, and bound his essence in a stone vessel of rosemary. Eternity at the bottom of the lake, half dead in a prison of smoldering spices, just to ensure the peaceful sleep of the dearly departed Isis.
credits
from Science For The Soundman,
released October 6, 2012
Monk Metz: words
Matt Calkins: tenor sax, FX
Mark France: guitars
Dave Trenkel: Rhodes piano, synth bass, sampled Mellotron, modular synth
JD Monroe: drums, samples, FX
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