Fluxslug: Re​-​mastered

by Bleach For The Stars



released April 28, 2017



all rights reserved


Bleach For The Stars Harwich, UK

Grotesque post-industrial noise, obsidian atmospheres of despair & holocaustic avant-garde poetry accompanied by one of the nastiest vocal deliveries ever haemorrhaged out of a bleach-corroded throat.

There’s no humour in this, just the cold of an Eastern gallows, bitter as all dead love.

Blood-shod; hauling a bergen of skinned dreams up the raw foothills of Gehenna... and towards catharsis.
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Track Name: Down Deep
Down Deep

Birdsong shed as snakeskin
The marinated dreams
Spilled like a child’s ice cream
Our waves aren’t what they seem
Reflecting violins

The shadow of the sun
Catches bone in its eye
And what these wrecks imply
Is not for you and I
As spider silks are sung

Cold leaves reject their limbs
Slipping inside the dusk
That with a gibbet’s musk
Blooms brief colours of trust
In hearts where no shapes swim

Winds over naked hills
Snap at the softened sea
Splicing their guarantee
Into all there is to see
When the wombs revert to chill

Under a night-numbed swell
Thick as the blood of whales
Stroking through ghosts of sails
Watch as the shore lamps pale
Waving one last farewell
Track Name: Point

My love is rhinestone to your diamond hate
But I have no more need of you to buy
To drag my skin through your sun-dimming sex
To breathe the wild confusion of your lies
And bend each lisp of light to your respect

Cold butterflies with wings of tin awake
Like bite-marks puncturing a snouted sky
To measure out this practical decay
Frost flowers from the dark lands of your smile
That tell me with weed words that I will die
Or little stings that you equipped with bile
To lick the sugar of my dreams away
To lick the sugar of my dreams away

Your insects crackle in a cotton heart
And dictate all the madness of my art
Your insects crackle in a cotton heart
And dictate all the madness of my art
Track Name: Terminus

Light never was the answer then or now
Not carved into the corpses of the clouds
Or crudely ripped out of a retching sun

A fresh star will not forge from seeping shades
Without integrity its furnace fades
And falls to empty stones as thunder drums

Each shattered beam of discourse split to screams
The brutal spasms of a bankrupt dream
Coherence flawed and rasping lives undone

A tarnished lens of lies hacked from denial
Each blunt reflection radiating bile
A howl of eyes submerged and overrun

Abrasive waves beat blisters to the sky
The tattered time a torch will not revive
What waited by the boundary has begun
Track Name: L

There is nothing like this pain, it is bare
In our mouths, tracked through the red reaches to
The sound of night’s swelling. It reels in air
But is still only itself. We construe
A thing that rips the ripe stars out of their
Sockets, packages our laughter in rain
And places its pitch. And so we declare
It known, as if, knowing, one could contain
Their corpse. The devouring wall, daubed with chipped
Day, pushes our angles in and out. Now
Is not fresh, the pelt of new meanings stripped
Of structure. All creeps under the cold plough
As vital rhymes fail into falling snow.
There is nothing like this pain – that we know.

And this we know: the long sun will fall
And fall still and the windless clouds still
Roll in night, and that will be the all
Of it. There is no space for the stars
In our chopped sky, only the one shrill
Voice, the skin-sound ripped out by brown teeth.
It is not pity we hear, relief
Is not its part, and the sense it sends
Breathes a certain blue onto our scars
And names us just as we bend to name
Each nameless thing. Down go our words, framed
In sucking fear. Down and lessened, dry.
Fed to forever in the cold sky’s
Scream, sad, and little, at their own ends.
Track Name: Tongue

Evening compresses our city beneath
A caked-on sky. Its black scream has bored into
The last limp of the day. With November’s teeth
Tapping at windows, we try hard to pursue
The frail dreams fleeing into night’s hungry noose.
Then, resigned to drop back with the damp, we crew
A colourless barque over the dim, diffuse
Words that were once will. Come down, they say, regard
The waste. There can be nothing more to reduce
Nothing to distil out of this, only charred
Stones in time. We all march in jaded parade
With blemishes still bold. The wall, rising, guards
A blunt flame. Lit, it can never be unmade
We sense this, in the great dark, and are afraid.
Track Name: Room

Little from little day, in rhythmic hate
My words go where I fear to tread, and mate
With metal, all things chemically cold.
To show submission, stutter in the old
Creases, logically crass, out of shape

Leaving a wild white shadow in their wake
-My signature debris is somewhat late.
The sly scratch of a needle’s nail has sold
Little from little day.

And so I fumble other heads, and stake
A claim for division. Watch the rooms shake.
Watch another world retching out its moulds.
‘Cogitas ergo sum’ is what I’m told.
A branded ego dies but still I take
Little from little day.
Track Name: Sparrow

The tiny hole of the sun, a scream tied
In its mouth, bores down on the bird corpse. Red
Rings its wind-scored blossom. It is spread wide
On the asphalt, like pieces of a word,
Ruthless and bright, stretching its silent threads
Around our ripe hands. Now it is absurd,
This bleak transparency that, with slack-eyed
Design, squats over the stump of day. Blurred
Hearts are heaped in its raw hold. Light cannot
Link it, tasting dusk where it hurls its will.
Blended into the creases of our own
Cries, we gulp like speared fish as a bent chill
Blasts. Nothing looms, all other forms have flown,
And with our nails we nurture in its rot.
Track Name: Walls

Frozen moon-shadows. Even the stars are
Stone. The gargoyle wind hangs stiff. Out there cars
Slumber, tossing metal dreams at the tightening
Street. Knives in the limbo of their drawer preach lightning
And humbled, hide. A grey vase grips peonies in a fist
Of calm, their heads lolling on lamplight. Entropy is grist
Or silt, depending on the dark that hangs inside
But this, the stopped jar, the ice between fingers. Dried
Drafts, a lick played out of tune; not quite clean,
Soul rashes from the robes of in-between.
Track Name: Untitle

We are not formed for the long dark,
The goring of eyes and lips. All
Rushing to nothing on sodden

The shudder that stubs out each harp
Stirs inside, a dragging of nail
Along bone. This certain-sudden

Like spit across the stars, ices
Seared grass and stooping with a soiled
Complexity, tenders the time.

Does little but point our choices.
Clamped with age. Processed flesh. Some world
Or some grey mound hangs here, hangs dim.

Final instruction remains?
Only the wind over stones.
Track Name: Mass

The original reproduction, you watch
Me through my own eyes, crying fragments of night.

We are pinned insipid in the carnival
Of the ignorant mouth, a muzzle on thought.

Orphaned meanings receding with our hair; each
Shakes sticks at a finite sky. We are as coal

Smashed from fire; our bloodless page belittles
Itself rhythmically. Bent by the settle

Of a sackcloth sun, silence soaks our flowers.
See how their blossoms appear quite black, like full

Stops. The garden is shut you say, but briars
Dissonant and lovely, shoulder its strike. Whole

My meat rack relics will be clinging skin-tight
To this trick; preserved for the value of dirt

Into a fresher fold
As naked words grow old.