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Redaction Artifacts

by East Of The Wall

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If the first light left me seen, then by the first strike I’ve been struck. God help me. I’d stumbled upon the crowd, at first, in jest. But I remained, if only out cold. I once told you my scars burn like hot iron. I’ve endured the day’s tolls, and held my back to ills. But if I’m to bear this load, then let me craft of it the hand that grips my throat. If I put in all my fears, then at least what’s stored is kept, albeit locked in this room. Grab hold, and you won’t let it go. I might choke out a phrase that’s honed with bile. Safe journey on you. You’ll run in a maze cut from my lines. A strong word rings out like a shot. I knew its aim would hit the mark. This golem I’ve made wants me dead. It’s been programmed blow for blow. Surprise–you bought it. Hell, I did. I need one shape. I need one place for aim: one rock and chisel, hewn into place, and resting atop the thinnest strawman stand. It seems we’re going anywhere but where I win, or anywhere at all. Grab hold, and I won’t let it go. I’ve called out a name that’s robed in time. Safe journey on you. You’ll run in a maze that’s all mine. Safe journey onward. I’ll call on the walls down around us both. A hidden ghost forms, and cleaves right through me; drawn as familiar, drawn to my call.
Just once, stop looking up and stare down. Get a feel for the height, and for its breadth. Quickly, you’ll adapt once you dig in, bracing yourself for the air rushing back. All sewn up, and thrown from the highest pulpit. No one was awake. No one could hear the splash. Just throwing away sacks of the guilt I no longer desired. Movement is an art, and I paint every road I walk upon. Meekly, some redact. Not mine. Let these lines converge and refract, willed. Henceforth, we’re all eyes, some with teeth. Search, gorge, I’ve tripped weaklings for show. Soft eyes above: once in a while it seems they’re calling down below. Saved and glowing within your senses, bracing yourself for the air rushing back. Claim now what you’ll kick down. Movement is an art, and I paint every road I walk upon. Meekly, some redact. Not mine. Let these lines converge and refract, willed.
Every word upon its course. Every page a final verse. Each dissolving in their pace. Lifted parts erode the same. None were captured, none obtained. With defeat, all walked away, home. It seems so close. That’s more to do with what you own. If land is where we live, then where we land is home on impact. To grab a claim and rush to ground: it’s dreamt up by the air, and those in the cloud. Parsed beneath the foliage. Torn apart and broken down. Sucked into the xylem’s stream. Hidden from the air. None shall be shared or bartered. Lie your form upon the drift, pillowed on the bulging heap. Burdened by anthologies, she bursts towards the winds. Can’t help but share. All is fleeting. Fleeting, the feel of crashing through. What gives? Terra, that’s what. The ground swelling down, convex. Falling, I guess it tumbles through, from sight. Ancient. I guess that work all went someplace. But what did we build for? Cornered, you felt a doorway. Panicked and restless, you thought you’d die alone. Trapped by inertia, you sensed the landslide. But now that the sand shifts you felt a gentle pull, the roots tugging. Struggle and pull. Becoming the compost heap wasn’t your goal. What do they say? “To stand in the presence of gods is worth all?” You got your wish–entombed with all the others. In time we’ll all of us be equally blotted out. For once, all inclusive. Tear the box away. Save the wrappings, all. Stare into the shape. Panic at the maw, with all light gone, rushing in, and all weight void. So now what use has gravity?
No shape or form; no part, or whole. Mistake the scent. Negligent, I won’t judge those unread or lowly. If they feel justified then I’ll abstain. No sense in baiting the paltry. I sense the dead in their eyes and turn away. Cleanse all those sins that they couldn’t hold back. Smile. Well it’s embarrassing when caught, enthused, yet mistaken. Was my mind somewhere else? No, I meant something else. Earmark the passage. Notate every corner. What’s a fallacy? That word’s not drilled in me. It’s not so tragic. It’s been supplanted. You can’t be swayed when all you hear is completely wrong. So stay inside, angry. Negate the words that move you. Judge all those unread or lowly. Call out all flaws that could undermine one thousand words that could swarm like flies. Like rot, it seems they’re creeping in. I put it to bed. I know that I can’t fold. I really love all your passions, and how the glue won’t hold. I shook them before with one word astray. When subjects get heavy, how easy the mortar breaks. I know you could just lose alone, but two can overcome as well. More for all. Preceded by ugliness under the gaze, I couldn’t abstain.
There’s a road off the paths down that way. It goes clear onward. With the skybox pitched behind just right, you wouldn’t know, but you could. With the lens maybe fifty yards offset, askew, you’re walking… nice. The moon’s just a flag for billions, building up the advert. I’d hate to be that simple, yet here we are–a simple race. Are they really there for you? Are you worth being there for? The ego’s needs are simple to satiate. An arc, maybe just above the overpass. Remote crane shot, it implies the depth, and employs a sweep, inherent in time worn scenes. Everyone looks back, but you can now. Don’t miss your chance to witness you, from the same crowd. Wouldn’t we all love to see the oncoming peril that we all know is one inch right off the screen? What loss, to only look upon the world from straight away? What cost, to solely enact a plan from meager visions’ space? And lo, exhaust, the stress of choice so ill informed. Entrapped and stalwart, so let the scales recede and sulk away. In view, the light beckons from all sides. Renewed far-sight, ebb and flow now owned, designed. One view. One choice. One flaw. Retcon your design. Renew your perch twelve feet away, and peer back. When the bees and the wolves have been paid they might even be less interesting. They’re bred to be so simple–ducks in a line. Buddy let me drop this conceit. I think we can both step off this line. To stand out is so simple from this line of sight. Who knew, amongst these crowds, you’re not alone? Who guessed, entwined in throngs, you’re a beacon? And now a glimpse. Maybe you just look good from the left. Self esteem boost: it’s the gift you need to step out of bed. So stride tall in jeans. Everyone’s going to be looking at your back. But you can now. Don’t miss this chance to witness you, from the same crowd. Damn. Who knew? You’re the one; you’re a god, in this light.
Tagged and ID’d. You don’t have to seek it out. No mystery. Who could mistake these blocks all razed by miscreants eschewing any chance of laying low? That’s the mark, the modus. I sighed and did due diligence. This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts in training. “Thoughts laced with magma. Diluted lucidic expressions violently erupt, with acidic intentions–bleeding outside the lines, colouring the pages of the mind.” (J. Klemm, 2013) Streaks let you find yourself. What couldn’t be torn bends in echo to the blows. Debris let you plot yourself. I’d bet that path maps pentagrams for roads. Woes let you find yourself. Shrieks ricochet throughout some metadata hell’s parsed charts. Some poor schlub surveyor melts their face, ark-style, with one glance. This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts. You could only miss this corpse when distracted by those corpses there. Diffuse the surprise, or catch it with purpose. Disruption’s the ride that bucks off its riders. That’s not the thunder to the sides. Your wreck of an engine is alight, strewn through these crowded lanes. You shake until it’s ended: a work of art, wreckage like genius blown apart. I’m so in awe of it, yet still I can’t regret what I haven’t the nerves for. Egress on the blast. Godspeed you bastard.
There’s more than wind through here. It’s all mid-stream. Maybe once I’d kept abreast of movement until my nerves ached and dilated in the strain. So now I’ve earned my salt. Drink another drink that heavy roots won’t hold. Creak, only to branch again, but scorn the take. This blighted a yolk only turns. Stay hidden beneath the earth. In turn, I’ve plowed my salt. I’ve earned my salt.
Noir Filter 10:06
There’s a clock that you covet. Who’s counting up all the days stored? Let’s hope you’ve earned a score that goes up and up. Look alive; hide your shudder. Was it you that would recall today? So look above like they’re upset you’re not on the up and up. Tip-toe in. Bash it all up, nonplussed by the noise. “I’m just out, with a case of the shakes. Don’t mean it. I’m sorry.” Venture forth. It’s blocked. Find a way. Venture forth. It’s blocked, chained. Back and forth, the light dies away. Left the scene unchanged. Only footprints left behind. There’s no culprits, no one to aim the barrel down and squeeze. So take a shot. Maybe someone near wears guilt, perchance. An act worth what it seems. A line queued to take it on. They trusted what was imbued. We take a lot on faith here. Too few, their names obscure. It seems they might be anyone. Here’s more souls. They know me in truth. I’m cut from the mold. Now it’s just us who gave up on youth to be something old. It’s enough to be this fruitless if I’m extolled. I’m aching for meaning as the aches have grown. Who will emboss where we’ve been to, or tend to the moss where we’ve stepped? There’s a film we’ve made that’s overlong. And when we expire, wait for their cut. Here’s all souls. We’re taken in truth, in debt through the goal. It’s enough to be less than the ghosts who all shunned the flesh and the bone. It’s about to end anyway. Though you may have had more to show, it’s ending. It’s enough to be almost done, perpetually. See the crowds of no one in line. You were lied to. There’s nihil to reach for in time, or any way else you tried. You won’t control this light once it leaves you. Its life and yours must divide or any worth it loaned is slight. There’s nihil to reach for in time, but every time you reach feels right. Now I’m through, and possibly I didn’t offer up enough. I have a pulse for coffers in the end times. Why not? Time is up.


East Of The Wall's 4rd full-length LP.

To stream or purchase this album, visit Translation Loss Records' bandcamp listing:


released October 29, 2013

East of the Wall:
Greg Kuter - Guitar/Vocals
Matt Lupo - Guitar/Vocals/Synths
Ray Suhy - Guitar/Electric Piano
Chris Alfano - Bass/Vocals
Seth Rheam - Drums

Drums engineered by Eric Rachel at Trax East. All other instruments engineered by Todd Hutchinson at Acadia Recording Company. Additional engineering by Chris Alfano at Volume Fact. Additional vocals on "Excessive Convulsive" performed and engineered by Jeff Klemm.

Mixed by Eric Rachel at Trax East. Mastered by Pat Keane at Pat Keane Mastering. Artwork by Eric Nyffeler at Doe Eyed.


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East Of The Wall Keyport, New Jersey


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