White Blossoms

by The Quickening

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released 05 April 2009

All songs by The Quickening

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Track Name: Fantasia Moons
We’ll find the sage; kill and imbibe him to start living; stop believing: “That soon will come the day when life will invite me!”...it’s not waiting, it’s not hesitating. Ten thousand made unmade; ten thousand paths unpaved: end in one realization. From cradle to the grave, the flux-like film of life; it flickers, the cadence dissipates. Is there nothing left inside? Are we wearing ourselves thin? As the novelty subsides, awaken the dream again. Now what remains, when form loses function? It’s arbitrary; it’s not necessary. Love and distain, the pendulum swinging. Our best foot forward is one foot in the grave - godless endeavors and pathless paths unpaved. From the cradle to the grave, the cadence dissipates, from the cradle to the grave. La soledad es espejo que no miente - I remember! Say it to me. Hell yeah.
Track Name: Conjurer of Cheap Trick
Today I felt the world falling away: all the questions disintegrate; within the void all is contained; the fallacy of time and space. Atop the sunlit rock Siddharta sits with Gatorade and cigarettes. Beneath the same within the stream, island of reeds surveys the dream, from places no one has been. And on the banks, she found him there; the kiss; the wound, all others dare but to borrow off her beauty. Beloved son submerged and cool, fractals of light in tea tree pools, black Jesus and the Baptist...slowly, from darkness, it’s unfurling the hand within the heart, concepts fail to grasp it. Explosive Cheshire grins and
symmetry extend beyond periphery. And though the days of memory; translucent waves upon the sea; I can still feel it linger in me. The blazing gun locks eyes with mine, two men of fire step out of time and
throw the shackles off their minds. The wind through wheat fields pushes you; keen intellect pursues the truth: don’t let your truth become your idol.
Track Name: Of Books and Bells
We’ve always watched ourselves playing the victims; stood on the soapbox of our own self pity; created hell within the nine gates of the city. Oh how deep runs our conditioning, and where lies our authenticity? We’ve killed the first born of humility: our gratitude. Brothers! Our reason lies deeper than our reasoning: the currents run so cool beneath the raging sea. Sister, sister; has life just become the subtle art of suffering? It needn’t be. It needn’t be anything at all. Restless? A slow burning anxiety? Some suicides can take a whole lifetime. And to the living; here’s the end in the beginning; are we deserving of gratitude?
Track Name: Yamaraja's Abode
If this is a game, then I’ll play it to the end. Love the decay and the day becomes unending. Whittle away, whittle away all the blood of the being. There is no shame, only the dust of dead words speaking. What’s next? There is no throne; there seems no prestige to be owned. Concierpe’s gain... platonic form hides in the function. Oh, martyrs please; your virtue is killing me. The polarity will shift; the mooring’s severed; we’re adrift on oceans of uncertainty. What’s next? My elation? Let’s test it, shall we put it to the floor? If it’s a stage then the actors are in place; the darkness leads to the utterance of your real name.
Track Name: Four Seasonings in Relative D
Baby, you and me; oh, we’re running to the edge of the precipice. What’s the rest of us? It’s the death of us. It’s a circle, the center is everywhere; circumference is nowhere. It has no edge. It’s overwhelming; the senses falling away. Sometimes I wonder, calamity enters the fray. What’s at the end of all these things? Fear and self loathing, the bliss and the ecstasy. What’s at the end of all these things? Nothing? The dust must keep praying (keep the heretics swinging)...but the eyes of the heart are ever patient. When eyes can’t move within; and there’s nowhere left without...
Track Name: Pistolaz of Love
In liquid hours, engaging with the sea; becoming vapor; the slow undulating... With condensation returning to the deep; gone the burden of sentimentality. I am a self contraction. I am no longer living, instead it lives through me, unconditionally. Unconditionally. Self adulation won’t save the day when death embraces in the end. We’re just returning from where we came; we live our lifetimes in a day. Movements mesmerize and dance duality; the sweaty palms of seers clasp the fingers of the seen. In mutual existence; the stitch of unseen seams, cigarette burns the blanket: light becomes a beam. Listen: still, attentively! the static obscures the simplicity: revel in the obscurity. No pressure: love is a gesture.
Track Name: White Blossoms
White blossoms bloom like morning eyes; unfurling into open skies. Void of questions, free from doubt, nothing lacking, time is now beyond perfection. Without a sound: without a name, they speak truth words cannot contain. Nothing to seek, no body to seek it; white blossoms... there’s nothing holy, nothing sacred. And when they fall there is no grief, philosophies, comforts beliefs, self contraction, separation, entertainment or distraction.
Track Name: The Ballad of Stuart Morley
Yes! This is it, this is all that there is and ever will be; of this I’m sure... I’m not quite sure. Hope our desire is just another word; more subtle and beautiful, see our hopes as void, and we will have more than we hope for (yeah!) Ownership’s owning you, and it’s dragging you down. And the sense overwhelming; tethered to the sound. When we wake up we’ll take our heads out of our arse. This party is fucking over; drink among the last. On the other side of everything; embers in the dark. When the effort costs your all; it’s there that you will start. Blessed, blessed are we on the graves of the dead. The road’s hard to traverse but, oh, the rest: silent, eternal. Sold to the gods for the price of your life, subjugate yourself to an ideal forevermore. Process: desire! We’re living for objectives, fantasies, ideals from door to door!
Track Name: The Blase are Kicking Arse
For twenty something years I walked by numbered days; through streets that others named, with maps that others made. Hold on - behold to what, you ask? Your fear is that you’re more than you thought you are (and now ‘you’re’ nothing). As night breathes into day on the banks of twilight streams; cupped hands, tentative sips, it tastes like childhood dreams. The fire was contagious, it licked at the sin. We loved our gold cages but we can’t crawl back in. How the fire was contagious, our flesh burned from within...and the storm just kept raging, never to be subdued again. Our Death lies on the horizon. We sail on...to meet her there; abandon fear.