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lyrics

My mouth is open with smoke pouring in,
My hands are shaking with a steady unease.
The clips of phonemes cascading into the mutilations of where we used to agree.

We won't tell our children of this great divide.

My eyes are open to wave upon wave,
As the torrents of threads of non-existence pour in.
And to these trinkets of our assumed need,
We will never celebrate with our new meanings.

And so we'll be gone before this statement repeats
For our regression and our protection.

We won't tell our children of this great divide.
We won't tell our children how we make cat's eyes.

credits

from Regiments, released December 1, 2008

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all rights reserved

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about

The Contortionist London, UK

The Contortionist is me, Andy Hirst; usually alone, but sometimes with friends. We even had a proper band for a while (The Contortionist and The Wandering Boy Poets).

I've been in a load of bands over the years playing various things: drums in Nixon, The Broken Chairs, and The Purgatory Players, guitar in Situationists, guitar/keys/vocals in Japanese Sleepers and Fall Forwards.
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