DRKMTR

by DRKMTR

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07:14

about

Prophecy [conversations with my Self] was born in folded time. Wild seeds took root in thoughtbeds - ran riot over the mind to sprout the unrestrained, uncivilized, tempestuous Self. Contradictory, anarchic and prophetic, these untamed words map wilderness and visions - recreate conversations with trees and mountains dreamt at the edges of madness…

From the concepts first made manifest in Prophecy, the fledgling poetry of DRKMTR became entwined with Steve Nicholls’ deftly crafted music. Ranging from the beautifully cinematic to unashamed krautrock noise, DRKMTR is a continually evolving configuration of sound, visual art and poetry.

Fusing two contrasting philosophies, one from myths of ancient times, one from cutting-edge scientific theory, DRKMTR asks what it is we see when the lights go out? Where is the truth behind the darkness?

credits

released November 26, 2012

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DRUM WITH OUR HANDS UK

A DIY record label from North Wales.

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Track Name: Tides (Part 2)
tides (part 2)

change is here

and who knew?
(when nobody could have known)
and who saw?
(when nobody could see)
and whose testimony will be read
when the light goes out?
(I keep no records)
the brightness
scalds retina
a memory
in defiance of death
(when nothing escapes)

is this the last
are these the last
here are the last days
embraces
not great enough
(could anything have been great enough?)
to hold steady these souls
when the wave of change
swallows
engulfs
devours

I would have told you
(if I’d have known)
I could have held you
(if I knew)
I should have felt
the tides ebb and fade
ebb and fade
ebb and fade
away

and all the money in the world
cannot buy
and all the tea in china
cannot replace
what was there
is not there
no longer here
swept out from under the carpet
and into the long dark night


satisfaction
for the dissatisfied soul -
embrace change
open the floodgates
drown
(washed clean)

to be
and to never be
(although stillness can be found in the heart of a lake)
oh to be a lake
of such tiny proportions
a raindrop
a penny
raining unspoken
for each emotion
(and thought)
greater
than the “storm in a teacup” -
how presumptuous
how preposterous
(when the moon shone I knew better)

anger does not hold me
regret does not cloak me
memories do not choke me
but change calls me
into the dawn
where once you held me
where once you knew me
where once you saved me

could I lie here
and stay forever?
Track Name: Deep
deep

I have tried to write you -
failed time and again to capture your depth
your essence
the way in which you move
now fluid
now enraged
now hypnotic

there is electricity -
the likes of which I cannot fathom
in darkness that swells
primordial -
I would be lost in you
I marvel at those who are found in you
but I would be lost

I would talk moonshine
become intoxicated
bask in your shallows
surf thoughts that froth over cresting waves
embrace the lie that is the warmth of you

you call
and I
dive through surreal
sink into profane
disperse in profound undercurrents

words cannot embody you
understandings glance
or are drained of light before dawning -
unplumbed you remain
deep
and I - an empty shell
beached like so many masquerading voices
that whisper your name
Track Name: Unknown
unknown

I read you
turn leaves into actions
and alchemy
devour poetry and sermons
philosophy, objections
your moon-solid-certainty
pulls tides as thoughts hauled through depths

the vision -
vermillion across oceans
is that
you do not know
you do not know that
“simple truths seem to change”*
because in knowing this your pen would weep
and in seeing this your mind would empty
and in learning this your books would burn

I would learn everything anew
- a baby
discovering the first dawn
and sunset
“and what I assume you shall assume
for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you”**

bubbles burst surface
and rain subtle illumination
on mountains the world over
yet no mountain claims
‘this is my rain’
and no oceans say
‘these are my tears’

I return to the written word -
fluster that knowledge
encoded might unravel
undo thoughts
but I sink to
the ocean’s floor where
veins pulse ribbons
or constellations
or ribbons
or constellations
not yet known

(the tree falling in the forest
is still felt by the trees)

I read
when the very act of reading feels treasonous
I write
“be careful in valuing words”*

(remember to leave no trace)


* Lao-Tzu
**Walt Whitman
Track Name: Dark Matter / White Noise
Dark Matter/White Noise

the shaman walks through worlds
unseen by the naked eye
she journeys with feet
rooted
she folds
time
and the fires burn
and the rivers run

her imagination
holds the gateway to galaxies -
she will tell you that
fairies live
that the underworld is real

she knows
the truth of Dark Matter

………………………..

she speaks
white noise
she speaks

a voice existing
as trees rustle
as water falls
as the un-tuned radio
as the rising of the moon
as the earth travelling (at 67,000 miles per hour)
whispers white noise

the expanse between existences
the sound of Nothing, of death.
open your mouth -
it fills the space before you speak
it is the language of atoms vibrating
the voice of the universe
the resonance of gods
a non-existence,
erasing all life…

…as the wind devours mountains

white noise
she speaks
white noise
Track Name: The Wild Hunt
the wild hunt

stories spoken
wheel’s spokes
shuttle’s tales
woven throats
the wild hunt -
and omens roll ominous
and wilderness
and wild-in-this
the wild hunts
she hunts
wilder now
stronger now
gaining momentum now
tearing the walls down
smashing the throne
thrashing
around

presage
precede
predict
and not prevail
over the wild
whose eyes are open
whose children are eaten
whose dead are lanterns
or fountains
of youth

when the wild hunts for you
and when the hunt calls you
and when change strips you
and false prophets speak for you
and the pale horse stands before you
speaking in tongues
breathing from broken lungs
spoken in stories
the wheel spoke
in myth
and fable
and legend
she hunts for you

wilder now
stronger now
gaining momentum now
tearing the walls down
smashing the throne
thrashing
around

presage
precede
predict
and not prevail
over the wild
whose eyes are open
whose children are eaten
whose dead are lanterns
or fountains
of youth

the spokes hold
the spoken told
the speechless wheels
grind words
find words
define worlds
and reinvent the wheel
as the world turns
as worms turn
stories unlearned
and prophecies burned

when the wild hunts for you
and when the hunt calls you
and when change strips you
and false prophets speak for you
and the pale horse stands before you
speaking in tongues
breathing from broken lungs
spoken in stories
the wheel spoke
in myth
and fable
and legend
the story spoke in fable
and myth
and legend
the wild hunts
she hunts for you

the wild hunt
Track Name: The Storyteller's Tale
the storyteller’s tale

here - where stories reside
I am riddled
a cat’s fiddle
a heart thrown on the griddle
hideous middle ground
yawns
(no longer a safe place to straddle)
unravel the tales

as fishbones
(and whales)
impale meanderings
leanings, - wonderings
where words crying out to be spoken
are offered tokens of gratitude
as the latitude of the world
shifts
down
into the night

when the poem becomes reality
(and reality a poem)
when the ocean becomes a fallacy
according to the written words
of great scientists of high stature
it’s all captured
and noted
dissected

the story is a lie used to tell the truth
history is a truth that eventually becomes a lie

I am the storyteller
who forthwith shall
speak lies
create worlds
unfurl
as spider’s webs curl
around this false heart
where tiny stories reside
as whispers
or smoke rings
and half-hidden meanings
(not yet discovered and ushered out into the light)
the good fight
is not over my friend
the long fight
is still raging my friends
and battle lines are drawn
in time’s sands
that shimmer like raindrops
through grasping hands
and ampersands
(and ampersands)

when the grand old man
has died
how will we remember him?
cut pieces out to worship him?
tear heart and lung and limb of him?
a million photographs of him
but none will recall
and the history books will burn
an inferno
of wasted words
forgotten
forlorn -
foregone conclusion

but old wives’ tales
and nursery rhymes
superstitious whisperings
and stories ringing throughout time
outshine
outlive the old man
his cronies lost
as old crones count the cost
and recite
recall, retell
stories ushered in from the night
and spoken around fires
of burning books
as amber leaves rise up from the ashes
we mourn nothing
and sing
and weave
and dance the soul’s creation
temptation is celebrated
fecund stories narrated
until the dawn
shatters witch’s spells
and mythical creatures return once more to dwell
in the forests
of the storyteller’s mind

until the next time…
Track Name: The Weed
The Weed

I am a weed, thriving on barren earth
living in the spaces you forgot to spray
with reason,
and in your neatly ordered gardens
I will grow
as your denial digs me deeper into every furrow
of thought.

In undesirable places
my seeds take hold,
bright yellow flowers accentuate
cracks in ordered minds,
and you stamp on my face
cover the ground, deny sunlight.
But I am that thought in your head that will not go away
I can wait
I can wait
for just one single drop of rain to fall my way
and I will grow
I grow with a strength, a persistence
that scares you
you who chooses pretty flowers to match your exciting thoughts
you who tend exotic plants that wilt with the day
you who digs, who toils, who gardens.

I do not need you to survive
when your back is turned I blossom
when the water is scarce I flourish.
I sit with my face to the baking sun
an apparition blown apart
as the earth becomes dust knowing
that I will always live to see another day.
Track Name: For Gaia
for Gaia

she is Gaia
and from her grows everything
and to her flows everything
as in life
as in death
as in life

from her cradle
the wilds run riot
a cacophony of colour
a blossoming of sound
an explosion
an existence
as stories twist thick vines
along sodden ground
as leaves or pages
or leaves or pages
or leaves or pages
whisper words aeons lost

and flowers sing the songs of the earth
and trees tell the stories of healing
and mountains echo the history of the stars
and all are born from her
and all will die with her
and those who listen – hear
and those who feel – know
but those who watch - are blind
as her story spins history
as the future is rooted in time
and beyond that - anarchy
and from that - chaos

but she is Gaia
and from her grows everything
and to her flows everything
as in life
as in death
as in life

From her cradle
civilisations sprawl forth
buildings erected
languages constructed
nature rejected
and the tallest buildings are built
and the grandest ships set sail
and the largest deserts expand
under the hand of the people who forgot to love the land
and the flower’s stories are crushed
and the trees are left soulless
and the mountains are mined
for the enrichment of material possessions
not the treasures of the mind
and the people forgot how to listen
and the people unlearned how to feel
and the people unravel the stories
as the tale spins loose from the wheel

as if Gaia did not even exist…
but she is…

she is Gaia
and from her grows everything
and to her flows everything
as in life
as in death
as in life

and from her cradle forever will spring forth
life that grows from her
and death that flows into her
for she is earth
she is Gaia
she is beyond our petty wranglings
above our nonsense politicking
below our incessant digging
she is the water that caresses us
the food that nourishes us
the birds that sing to us
the web that binds us
she is earth
and we are born of earth
and even our most marvellous creations will return
like us
to earth
to dust
to Gaia