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lyrics

I have read Tennyson's Idylls of the King, and I fed venison to the dinner feast. It was a potluck out of a dream, and a buck that I shot and cleaned. And we spoke in apostrophe, invoked idols long undersea in the hearts of all but the most discerning men. (Yes, and then...)

I have slurred all the words to "Mr. Grieves". I have heard angels purr on a cassette tape under static cling. Hunters of fossils and disc jockeys all jostled for our esteem as we lunched upon lotus leaves. And someone in velvet sleeves said, "We are agreed -- there is no such thing as sin." (Chin chin!)

Are we not what we eat? I can't decide anymore.

Necromantics don't know what to wear to the fair. No semantics could hold up a flare to compare. Exultant in the heart of our lair is a chair – can't get a glimpse, there's no there there! Do you care?

Vandals and Philistines are within sight of the door. They're milling in the streets – can't go outside anymore.

We reserved all our rage for the libraries. Sing, O Muse, of the phage that unfurled on the world merest anarchy. The emperor, from head to toe, is definitely wearing clothes. We'll genuflect as he goes, so sinewy, to the show. He is continually playing a show – listen! (To the snow falling faint, faintly blow.)

Candles are wicked things – can't shine a light anymore.

Necro-police, they throw wild affairs. Let your hair fall discreetly nowhere, everywhere. Do you dare? Pack your valise, cause we're going there (though there's no there there). White laundry sheets, the strangers will stare. Do you care?

Fires are flickering, licking the side of the door. We fall to bickering, can't pick a side anymore.

So load up your pockets full of all things apocryphal. We'll sail our sarcophagi serenely into the sky, where the image of a great eye – though blemished with a great sty – cries in witness to our toil and plight. Amen.

In what city to tread, full of dread? And with what company break our bread?

LET’S OPEN UP THE HEADS OF THE DEAD. AND WE WILL SUP UNTIL WE ARE FED. WELL, I KNOW WHAT I SAID.

Are we not what we eat? I can't decide anymore. They're coming through the trees – can't go outside anymore.

credits

from Take Me to Your Leader If You Know What I Mean, released October 17, 2015

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Supreme Fiction Durham, North Carolina

Supreme Fiction makes music about communists, existential crises, zombies, and lovesickness (and, of course, zombie lovesickness). The Carrboro and Durham-based five-piece creates melodic, energetic pop awash in sugary hooks and group harmonies, shot through with nervous surrealism, and tempered with submerged melancholy. ... more

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