Shreveport Blues

by Atrocity and the Complications

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released October 30, 2014

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Atrocity and the Complications Lexington, Kentucky

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Track Name: Shreveport Blues
Something's rotten in Shreveport. All the locals are getting restless. The unlucky few who go out at night are found in the morning, lying breathless, like the college girl, home for the weekend, never knew she'd meet a gruesome end. The cops are baffled: "This is some sick shit going down. Call in the weird inspector from the ugly side of town." Like a shadow at a graveside, he appeared, leather raincoat slick from the city fog. He doesn't talk much, and when he does, he's got a voice like a frog, or a dog, or a hair-trap clog. "TWO FOUND DEAD IN A DUMPSTER, ANOTHER IN THE TRUNK OF THE SHERIFF'S CRUISER." "Whoever's pulling this is one hell of a bruiser." This is the hand that penned this confession, and this is the hand that washed it free of sin, and this is the hand I took her neck in, and this is the hand that pushed the knife through her skin. I am that inspector. I am that fiend. I am that everything in between. We walk at night. We stalk our prey. We are only human . . . by day.
Track Name: Spirits for the Spirit
This bottle's for ether, and this one for ethyl--grain grown in the pasture, herbs on the bank by the still water, from the dark of the cabinet of the ash of the swamp, spirits for the spirit for the spirit in want, a distilled essence of a pastoral scene. The dead only live when the dead only dream. Melissa for her balmy oil, artemisia for her bite, sweet fennel for her festivity, anise for posterity from the dark of the cabinet to the ash of the swamp, spirits for the spirit for the spirit in want, a distilled essence of a pastoral scene. The dead only live when the dead only dream.
Track Name: Sun and Brambles
Cold bourbon/white cigarettes, a new Kentucky dawning. The Baptists in the hills in the east put on a dress of mourning, singing old songs in white gravel yards, saying nothing. New shoes trample old shards. Sun and brambles, a wasp in the church-house hovers on old songs. The children grow restless. The clergy turns. Hot bourbon/black cigarettes, the hills grown cold. Do hands reach through soil, a reunion deferred? Names etched in granite, a vignette in between: a mansion of tin behind its king and queen.

WE TAKE SOLACE IN THE FEAR OF THE LAMB! WE FEED ON THE ICHOR OF THE MESSENGERS! WE WEAR OUR SORROW ON OUR FACES! WE SEEK LEVITY! THE SPIRIT IS LOOKING FOR SILENCE, THE FLESH, LONGEVITY!