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09:34

about

TODWM 2007-2015

credits

released May 11, 2015

Beastie - Bass, Vocals
CF - Guitars, Vocals
Robin - Drums, Synths & Electronics

Cover art and photos by Bernard Brand (bernardbrand.com )

Mixed and engineered by Paul Gioia.
Partly recorded at Asylum Studios, Pretoria (www.facebook.com/pages/ASYLUM-STUDIOS-SOUTH-AFRICA/87719410086)

Mastered by Magnus Lindberg at The Vilhelm Room, Stockholm, Sweden (www.magnuslindberg.com)

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The Ocean Doesn't Want Me Gauteng, South Africa

transformation in our restlessness

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Track Name: We Remember
to my son the winter morning
naked, cold, and arid
our brittle bones - blue

crippled hands,
ready to let the reins fall

to you,
we leave, the wide open sky
it hurts,
to leave, but there in lies the reason why
more of our pride,
in shreds, than that of our hearts

to you we leave the wide open sky,
broken, cluttered by smog

we remember well the warnings
and all the days of spilled splendor
so prepare your taste for dust (let the reins fall)
it's coming down
Track Name: Droughts and Floods
an old pain,
inflicted,
generations passed,
resonating in your bare branches,

dull, and bleak, and undefined
not dissimilar
to that of knowing without knowing

an apology then,
bland, and bleak,
a thud
it sits in my throat,
as it will get stuck on your tongue

will you take the reins, if there's no-one left?

worse for wear
a callous on a new hand
bitter ends to bitter nights

let them answer one thing
what it is to care
droughts and floods will take us
Track Name: Young Ones
when did we become the handsome fools?
cradling the promise of tomorrow

tell the king he's dead,
in his place a boy,
with soft pink skin,
mouth still wet.
Mother's joy.
Eyes still blue, but open,
not muddied by the worries of the world

Young ones will forge ahead
steady on, steady on, steady on

rely on tender hopes and dreams,
milk runs sour underneath our skins,
tethered to a boulder
besides your new hatched wings

the crutch of youth
buckles
underneath the weight of expectation
Track Name: Let Blood
my understanding falls short,
when it comes to you...
my darling daughter,
I sing of sons,
and harmonise,
with status quos,
I apologise
that's the way it goes

Like sorting mustard seeds through gravel and grit,
the job at hand calls for your delicate frame,
the king will be the king but you'll have your way,
your words, the pillows, where the warriors lay

so have your say, but the king will be the king,
until no tree, turns green

A thousand sons wept their eyes dry,
while the truth sits idly by