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Turf Ascension [HD 24​/​88​.​2]

by Bubblemath

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1.
Surface Tension Every day teachers bleed us. We decay as they lead us, bearing loads of contention, down the roads that we pave. Still, they take us for granted. Wide awake, disenchanted; we assail this dissension, and we fail to behave. Solitude drives our mood. All too easy to disconnect and mutually meet their lack of respect. Skipping out on our teachers; lessons we’ve been ignoring. Sleeping under the bleachers. School is seriously boring. But there’s one thing we’ve heard about that has caused a stir: that our whole building holds a secret. There were whispers spinning up rumor. Former students had brought it. Always treated with humor, no one actually bought it. But it turns out we’re gonna learn what the building does as a well-armored war command post. Because... In the wall of a bathroom, down the hall from the math room, a covert old computer screams alert and alarm. Teacher stops, sets her chalk down. Central Ops is in lockdown. Says she’s more than a tutor as the war-systems arm. “Brace yourselves...watch those shelves!” Walls and windows are folding in. Now part of the floor is starting to spin. Plunging at a steep angle, one that only gets steeper, cables dangerously dangle as we’re burrowing deeper. There’s a loudspeaker telling us this is not a drill, but it seems that it kind of is one. We’re still digging downward and leaning. Forward engines are roaring. Old thoughts take a new meaning: school is actually boring. Pretty soon we’re a mile or so under solid ground. When we lurch to a stop we’re met with no sound. Led by somber personnel, walls unfold. And we're ushered from the airlock, in awe, into a hermetic cell where we're told that the sanctity of their lock is law. Sterile hallways, wide and white at the fore, house a thousand ordered war-rooms and stalls. Flooded by fluorescent light, every door opens up to even more rooms and halls. Riding out the war in hiding, we'll be here abiding, living in trade. The highest grade energy made by the muscle we're providing powers hydroponic towers, filter pumps, and showers. Learning the nursery down to every letter, each anniversary makes us even better. Ample surface sensors sample, scanning each example. Pulses and beams slip through the air, reading extremes everywhere. So many stations monitor vibrations and communications. Every antenna's a signal fed to every display inside our hideaway. Stasis, driven by the basis of this strange oasis. We're pioneers, but we're confined. Though it's been years, we don't mind, ’cause our arrival guaranteed survival. We are all archival. Ready to back up humanity, we patiently wait to go repopulate. While we churn in the compound, cities burn in the bomb-pound. What devours far above us isn’t ours to forgive. So we face our salvation and embrace obligation; any role needed of us in this hole where we live. We purvey DNA, just like how each antenna fits, as we all become friends with benefits. Automation; manufacture is ongoing. Cultivation; all consuming and all growing. Satiation at the pull of a lever. Self-sustaining; all as one in the same garden. Softly raining; our resolve and our hearts harden. Waxing, waning, we could be here forever. Fruiting trees extend their leaves as they sway in the artificial skylight and rain. Signals any screen receives make our day, but they only seem to highlight our pain. Searching each alert we see, we endure for the words that lead the way out: ALL CLEAR. Someday life above will be safe and pure, but till then our lives will play out down here.
2.
Everything 10:13
Everything From what we know to be true, to what we see as lies, on every face of a clue, truth wears a wide disguise. Outside the laws we believe, grind cryptic cogs and gears. All distance drives to deceive. All detail disappears. “Actual” never counts as contractual. “Factual” is a flash on a screen. A projection; a selection of scenery, fashioned by this machinery. Greenery, like a glass figurine, manufactured to be fractured. But not when seen. Far off and deep within, through the core; past all the quarks that spin. Just before membranes pulling thin, through the door: something more. When we avert our gaze, through the veil — vaguely, through the haze — all detail fades in and out of phase. So we sail off the trail. Occasional rifts occur. Inconsistencies beckon us to infer where to find the keys. Charity — from this gift of disparity: clarity to reverse-engineer. Like a quasar, these displays are empirical; in the shape of a miracle. Spherical, in the way that they steer what they seem like: floating dreamlike, then crystal clear. We're locked within our brains, rendered blind to each of these domains, all combined. All these hidden planes we're inclined not to find. Our intellect overwhelms, getting in the way. Hiding these other realms from another day. We all could volunteer to explore every door and the promise it holds. Instead we live in fear of decay, and the day the economy folds. From the price of gas making us run terrified, to the force and mass some of us might call a gram, we'd be wise to mark all of it unverified. Everything, from dark matter to light: it's all a hologram. Our need for reference frames, for a wave to behave in the way that it should, can't verify the claims that define the design that we've misunderstood. And as the future brings a resolve to evolve what we don't understand, we cling to petty things like the past in the vast simulation at hand. Lift up the mask to reveal: we've never known what's real.
3.
Decrypted 09:57
Decrypted Up on the hill is an apple tree, and its trunk is dead and dried-out debris. Struck down, hushed and still; still it’s standing tall. Though its roots are gone, it just doesn't fall. In spring it looms. Pink blossom blooms drink. Sweet perfumes sink from their tombs. Old habits grow from the apple tree, reaching deeper than a sunset at sea. It just won't let go of the skies it knew. Lonely branches, empty, into the blue. That pull and push from bud to bush we all share spirals in a circle unaware. This urge we serve is just the curve we’re drawn in. Every ending bending to begin. Now we’ve decrypted the code that holds us here, finding we’re consigned and conscripted to persevere. Since our arrival, we’ve seen each day stampede forward on the fruits of survival while we recede. Out in the yard is an apple tree, rising up as if it’s easy and free. A shell of a shard that’s alive inside, never knowing that it already died. Life stands defiant to how the dice are thrown; arms akimbo. Raw hands, reliant upon themselves alone; limbs in limbo. That pull and push from bud to bush we all share spirals in a circle unaware. This urge we serve is just the curve we’re drawn in. Every ending bending to begin. It just won't let go of the skies it knew. Lonely branches, empty, into the blue.
4.
Refuse 10:55
Refuse One overt idea opened the door: tap the energy in the sun. A galleria into a war, where we got to play spin-the-gun. After some hurting, we were converting dynamite to Fahrenheit. Those flames that were fashioned fanned and impassioned tiny bits of atom-splits to rise; from one collision cut from a hole into all of our future skies. Every incision out of control. Now we’re nothing but suture ties. Mining bitumen came from the human cranium. Uranium showed up on our dockets; loaded on rockets. See them cruise to light their fuse. Unchecked, we self-select. Speed leads us to exceed. Gorging on the greed, we drown. Each enhancement pulls us down. Such advancement. So thin whenever we begin, it’s as if we’re in reverse. Each improvement makes things worse. Every movement crash lands and then expands. Crash land and then expand. So thin whenever we begin, it’s as if we’re in reverse. Each enhancement makes things worse. Such advancement. Speed leads us to exceed. Gorging on the greed, we drown. Each improvement pulls us down. It’s our movement: unchecked, we self-select. More. More and more. More and more. More and more. More and more. More and more. Psycho-transporters, quantum bomb-blades, nanobot mortars, EMP grenades with a brain-trigger, plasma longbows. Power gets bigger, and the record shows every day the number grows. We could try to take ’em all apart; shut it down. But even if we did, fear would win, and it would all restart. It’s a losing bid. For every single weapon we defang, the force of another hundred will increase. Everybody wants to build a bigger bang in the name of peace. Particles pelting, morphing and melting solid ground; forever bound to runaway bruising, fused and refusing to conclude the day unglued. Stone, as hard as ever; not quite as strong. Earth is all an erosion zone. Because we’ll never wait very long for another explosion.

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released June 24, 2022

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Cuneiform Records Washington, D.C.

Cuneiform Records is an independent record label releasing adventurous, boundary-bursting music by artists from around the world.

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