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lyrics

After the crash you said:
"I can't believe that we died!
I can't believe that we're dead!
And we can have this little
post-ha-ha-mortem!"
The surface of this moon is thick
with the shreds of the lives that we lived,
we could power our distress signal
by burning the skins that we shed.
And when the search party arrives
to find that the embers have died,
will they notice as they mill about
that somehow the smoldering shell smells of
opoponax and jasmine.

The future's a silent heat death.
Or the future might be the Big Rip.
Or the future's the fucking Big Crunch.
The future's our exploding sun.
The future's another ice age.
The future's ten minutes away.
The future's the next breath we take
of air that is heavy with the scent of
opoponax and jasmine.

This can't be a song because I can't sing.
This isn't a metaphor for anything.
It was here when we came,
it'll stay when we leave,
and whatever it is it smells like
opoponax and jasmine.

credits

from "​.​.​.​nightjars nightjars nightjars nightjars nightjars​.​", released February 3, 2023

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Erich Zann / The Shrander image

Erich Zann / The Shrander Seattle, Washington

"His blue eyes were bulging, glassy, and sightless, and the frantic playing had become a blind, mechanical, unrecognisable orgy that no pen could even suggest." — H.P. Lovecraft, The Music of Erich Zann

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