Rare Plants Metaphor

by Rob Shuttz

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Seven weeks. Oh for the company of others!


released July 9, 2015



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Rob Shuttz London, UK

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Track Name: Leaden Cloak
Is it over? Is it over? Did I shake off the leaden cloak? Was the smoke and mossy growth and rotten bone ever clear from my throat? As I lie under the sky, all I see is eyes. As I lie under the sky, I see eyes.
Track Name: In This Way
A little lighter forever. A small task for me to complete. Stay in, lay low. The spine curls up like a danish, I'll have it. Tectonic skin is shining grey, in this way. A little lighter forever. A tiny challenge to achive. Get out., leave home. The alveoli attack the ribs, I'll have it. That shoulder's rusting at the thread, in this way. Those toes erupt in a lunar landscape, I'll have it. These hands are pastry in the rain, in this way. I'll have the lightning in my brain, I'll have. I'll give my ghost a part to play, in this way.
Track Name: Solstice
Lets spend another day in the shell, shining up the interior surface for assisting in sliding around a rapid array of my most enjoyable enterprises. Despite being totally aware of the emotional erosion catalysed by this kind of non-social obsession, a tight spring takes me from goal to goal with an urgency that both satisfies my creative endeavours and at the same time seems to whisk me past the moments of clarity that could have been longer and the minutes of minimal temporal exchange that should have been much more momentous. Knee deep in the sludge of sound I've been recently hammering repetitively into my head this precious crystal vessel of personal perceptions is suddenly shattered by an abrupt call to the other world. They won't take "no" for an answer or at least they wouldn't if they didn't know me so well, a fact I see fit to educate everyone with without ever truly paying any attention to the blanket of loneliness tipping softly over the distant shadow of my future self. Still, "no" is not my answer by default and as the articles of argument arrange themselves neatly on the scales, the spring loosens, I carefully choose a coat, collect my keys and step outside. The cogs are turning well today, a pleasant result considering conversation for me is a talent that can as much shoot through the air like a silver arrow as it can thud on the gravel like taxi-tilted black bollards. Exchanges are exchanged and friendships lay verified, a pot of rare plants, drinking water and eating the sun. Pleased with the shape of the day, I'm happy to retrieve the appropriate box and, making sure the whole community and council of the mind are watching, boldly tick it. The tick is marked with a green brush-tip pen, to link the achievement with the image created by the 'rare plants' metaphor I used earlier. Before heading back to the shell, I can't help but notice. The high sun strikes hard through a veil of rain emanating from the quarter-sphere of black cloud which, not two hours before, was diving deep into the weave of my new black trousers. It's the solstice. It's the longest day of the year. It's the solstice. It's all downhill from here. The ambiguity of that phrase maintains its ability to short circuit my wiring. As dry legs now carry me home, a spectrum portal floats in a perfect dimension of stillness above my head. One hundred percent of colours synchronised in supernatural majesty. With a thin snap of magic behind me, I turn on to the road that brings my home and base into view. I nearly snap my ankle in a tiny man-hole that's lost its lid, except that's not true because i saw it well before stepping anywhere near its comically calamitous micro abyss. I mean I saw it at least a week before. Despite fully understanding that this potential peril was laid before me by what was honestly an honest mistake by some other human being either being less than attentive or perhaps knowingly flippant about their work or play or just plain day, i deliberately and to no genuine benefit towards myself emit a dark shroud of fictional rage up into the atmosphere where its spiky intangible dread hovers purposefully until pinpointing the position of that indignant individual.
Of course seeing that person succumb to anything close to the dark fate my ego imaginarily exacts upon them would trigger a biological emergency within the semi dormant empathetic department of what I've been led to believe is my brain. The alarm thus sounding, a flood of feeling douses the flames of malicious fantasy and I bath in a bright pool surrounded by mists and aromas reminiscent of remembered memories where I'm a nine year old pioneer pushing further than recommended up the concrete storm drains at the bottom of the valley. Always trying to summarise. Always trying to feel something dug out of a slice of life that either happened already or, by reason of the peaks and troughs I wrote my code by, should surely be scheduled to happen again. I can tell myself "it just did" and hardly noticing is entirely excusable by the standards I indeed do follow.
Track Name: The Road to the Western
The road to the western side of this town; peppered with holes but paved with gold. We're learning a lesson straight out of the ground but what do we know? What do we know? The rivers are caged in a concrete shell. They ride up heatwaves and hide from that hell. A star on the floor draws your attention but where does it go? Where does it go? The dreams of a nation faltering behind the smile of a lost generation. What do they know? Where does it go?
Track Name: Mithra
"Would you like to know what happens to your soul when you die?" Thanks but I'll decline. What's the point of being here if I can skip to the end at any time? At any time. "You can have the answer if you're willing to let it into your life". Nice but tell me why. "So you can look forward to eternal paradise". That sounds like a lie. What's the point of being here if I can skip to the end at any time? At any time.