The Text Files
Caricature
This text by John Cale published on the cover of the Church of Anthrax album.
Upon the centre stood a green a lazy floor that froze as it grew into our feet. And at this, somewhere up at the North Pole hung the tarantula of love out of the sky withour hope searching the earth for disaster wreaking foul pleasure in the name of Sun harassing travellers on the way to the market polluting the streams and rivers with sanguine taste the poor light of day to call forth in haste the brigade that lingered in the shade waiting waiting and a little longer waiting as the moon appeared an ambulance was lost, in the problem of identity between accomplishment and the failure. Yet, the season broke its hold on the land and farmland lay strewn withe the greedy waste of animals too sick to calve the groaning spread for miles, up and down, from the gate to the valley and searching was made more and more diffcult by the dense fog that poured out of the ground where the independent feeling of the day held court on the masterful art of nature. There were seasons of abandonment and some of distrust to simplify the difference between them. As there were no holidays in theory assumptions wre made regarding the full significance and purpose of work and death their relationship interdependence benefit plans and the rest. All were veterans of love. They sang at the streams as the wasted time in the meantime. Nothing was left to the imagination. Most of our sympathies lay with the wives and strangers. Philp the Good lived there his life in dire poverty and best of health may his mother be his best wittness. What one century had lacked another gained and each held a marauding grasp on the grim future of men and women in the struggle for compatibility. There were several possibilities for salvation none deserving responsibility and all demanding attention. The savage tale was told at last. Not one propietary glance was seen imminnent as the stability of parallel interests took a trun for the worse.
As often as not there was nothing to talk about the sun was not out the air was fit not to breathe and everywhere could be seen the radiant glow of fear on the waxen countryside. Colors rang true and strong the rain diminished nothing a hand grenade would not have done and the chapters of our ancestral strain glass ecstasy assumed the military strength of electricity along the breadth and width of Christendom. The pepole were ready for revolt and sabotage inspired by the futility of hate. Concomitant atrocities came hurtling out of the past in self defense and exhilaration at the first sign of derisive similarity the perversion of uniqueness as it was called in vol. 2 chap 3 vs 7-29. The skin of armis lay in its yellow ochre rumple next to the fire extinguisher with plasma so much for the color there what-ever.
As soon as the time came to go, the dramatic sequence of obliteration took its toll on the landscape; the sky was immune. Gone.