Rude Geeks

by Rude Geeks

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about

Thomas Cox, Lealand Grauwiler, Dilan Rhodes, and Jesse Rhodes were Rude Geeks.

Recorded at Rude Haus.
Engineered and mixed by Dilan Rhodes and Lealand Grauwiler.
Mastered by Mike Brazeau. www.reelaudio.ca
Photography by Jennifer Jelfs.
Logo design by Jesse Somfay. soundcloud.com/jessesomfay

credits

released November 30, 2015

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about

Rude Geeks Edmonton, Alberta

2010 - 2015

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Track Name: Illegal Drug Cities
O sweet, enticing sordidness.
Writhing voluptuousness of flesh.
Children begot in scorn,
daughters and sons of Baal,
bearing the stamp of Sodom,
playing the heel.

Revel in the sacrilege —
let's discuss my slut complex.
Revel in the sacrilege —
the implicit pestilence of every son.

Sensuousness comes thick like pyre smoke.
Lust clings to me while you draw ragged breaths.
If I assume the position, will you let me go down to pray?

Anticipating the remembrance of desire —
the passion of the cigarette.

Anticipating the remembrance of desire —
slipping chemicals underneath my tongue.

The highest brows,
the lowest loins.

Damp denim knees.
Darkrooms.
Track Name: Feeble Sadist
I can't keep track of my impositions,
I don't have the stomach.
I'd beg for you to twist the knife,
but I'm such a feeble sadist.

Embalming my impurities.
Steady hands around a giving neck.
This is my chat roulette suicide.

I never thought I'd be one to pay
for the transient bliss of sin,
but here I lay, buying hell on credit,
red eyes fixed to a throbbing screen.

Embalming my impurities.
Steady hands around a giving neck.
This is my chat roulette suicide.

The weight of objects.
The taste of blood.
The ripe scent of musk.
A soul encrusted with lesions.

Have you ever really held a knife?
Track Name: Veiled Heresy
The mirror doesn't pierce the veil.
Does the serpent tie the knot?

Though they march before a god who faltered,
the mirror reflects nothing so human.
My lineage is that of the heresiarch.
We will outlast them, we will endure.

The mirror doesn't pierce the veil.
Does the serpent tie the knot?

With enmity and hatred we subsist in defiance.
We will outlast them, we will endure.
Headlong into unbelief, stricken blind —
they will taste the fruit of their misdeeds.
Their ruin will be just, as the ancients foretold.

The mirror doesn't pierce the veil.
Does the serpent tie the knot?
Track Name: Naughty Language
Bristle at the naughty language,
lash out with your vicar tongues.

Prescription scoldings meet stale air.

Bristle at the naughty language,
lash out with your vicar tongues.
Feign surprise while the gash bleeds.

"How they thirst to be the hangmen!"

Who are you beholden to?

Only in the ripest moments,
when their eyes bear down on you,
will you join their revelry,
the primordial fool.

It's the smell of dogma on your lips.
It's the pious glistening of your thighs.
Track Name: Edmonton Sun Reader
Worming my way through the gaps in the crowd,
snapping at their ankles.
I'm only at home when I'm neck deep in filth,
there's room to writhe down here in the dirt.

Labyrinthine designs,
riddling this cockroach mind.

I've a bad habit of sneering at everything,
preaching from the ego's pulpit.
They don't even know that I've ruined their day,
too busy stacking coins.

Labyrinthine designs,
riddling this cockroach mind.

And I'll confess: it's a banal aesthetic,
but have you seen the shit that they're peddling?

Worming my way through the gaps in the crowd,
snapping at their ankles.
I'm only at home when I'm neck deep in filth,
there's room to writhe down here in the dirt.

Consume me and break me down —
I’ve absolved myself without penance.

If we all know that it's just a game,
why shouldn't we play?
Why shouldn't we win?
Track Name: Strains of Bullshit
Snares upon snares.
Seraph or serpent.
Concrete godheads cannot wake the third eye.

Snares upon snares.
Seraph or serpent.
Weaving endless ghost structures,
furtive hands in our blind spots.

Lusting for something bottomless and monolithic —
Lord, make me a stone.

Are we really so above the primal?
Stained by that same essential vanity.
Archangels who've forgotten we're wearing masks.

Throw us all against the blank,
we'll dissolve as quietly as anything else.
That ugly, gnashing, bastard truth.

Lay your hand upon your breast.
Close a fist.
You have all the protection you need.
Track Name: Mulder & Scully Are Raging Inside Me
Cold nights, heavy lungs.
Brittle fingers tracing the contours of a pregnant universe,
searching for a seam.

There's power wrapped around these bones
that I haven't felt anywhere else.
There's power wrapped around these bones —
a violent wellspring, frothing at the mouth.

Hands clasped in faithless prayer —
lift thirsty eyes to heaven.
Nothing's found but dying lights,
too frail and distant to illuminate.

Nothing outside of being
can be touched through finite mind.
Take your hands off of your throat —
you are nothing, you are everything.

What have I seen beyond?
Only what I've felt.

Is there is only this flesh and what we inscribe upon it?
Track Name: Life is Rude
Drink from the shit cup —
I'll bet you swallow.

Drink from the shit cup —
you'll choke it down.

Amidst a drought that cannot be quenched,
will you suckle upon a septic fountain?

Drink from the shit cup.

Cash in imagined debts.
The life you hate is the one you've chosen.

You accept what you don't have to,
and crawl when you should walk.
You aren't owed one goddam thing,
end your needless suffering.

I am that self-invented motherfucker —
who are you?

Drink from the shit cup.

Drink from the shit cup —
you'll choke it down.
Track Name: Murk & Mire
The secret lives of kitchen knives.
Red wine spilled on linoleum floors.

Deep sinew memories —
unwinding of diminishing threads.

Unsent letters bleed into murky water.
The frugality of love by implication.

Deep sinew memories —
unwinding of diminishing threads.

Drifting dissociation —
spider webs inching down the glass.

Dread chords sound as we read the portents,
familiar patterns unfurling aimlessly.

Eyes closed like shuttered blinds.
When will the purge begin?

Different definitions of decadence,
the same eternal entropy.
Track Name: Cold Cauterisation
I am obsidian sheathed in ice.
A patient heat rests at my core.
I will melt between your twisting palms,
but I won't ever betray my warmth.

Cold cauterisation.

My swollen bones broke hollowed skin,
I etched my stories into them.
There's no forgetting —
the narrative has becoming quite apparent.

It's in the shadow spaces, falling in-between
the killing floor and the waking dream.

I can't always escape myself,
when externalities come reigning down,
and I get so caught up in the violence
of the outer's intrusion: the collision of lives.

Ensnaring time in a web woven outside the constraints of seconds summed

Nauseous and yet humbled.
Self-baptised, immersed in
the fragile beauty of a weightless life —
untouched by violence,
untouched by love.

Remission of sin administered by the enduring heretic.
I'll keep my love pure, I will tend to it: it's a sacrament.

Being towards degradation.

I will reclaim my silence.
Track Name: Farmer
Will our cleaving stem the tide
or will we be undone,
succumbing to an auburn sky?

Twilight on the prairies.
The stoic trucker's farewell.

With every sundering,
a spell of quickening.
Can these concrete husks
give way to transcendence?

When time itself begins to thin
and the fault lines sharpen,
we trace them back with fortitude
and offer squalid prayers.

Life is a middling truth
without anything to grasp.
A vigil held under clinical ghoul lights,
neon bleeding under the door.

And as her vessel faded,
I heard love leave her lips —
"I dreamt I was somewhere green."
The graceful repose of a mother.
Track Name: Punker Chic
Pink puffy flesh.
Pink gaping maw.
I am the fatted calf,
the whore of Babylon.

Pink puffy flesh.
Pink gaping maw.
I am the dethroned virgin,
the whore of Babylon.

My silence, she moves for me alone.
The petulance of the lilting rose.
Will you beg the martyr?
Will you bring her to bear?
Debasement gussied up and served in bite-sized portions.

Tiny floggings aren't so hard to bear —
ripping coarse black hair from pallid skin.
Denouncing every chance at ascension —
the vain pursuit of a feckless symmetry.

It's unbecoming of a lady.

I am the graveyard skulker.
I have become the ghoul.
I am the foetid one,
pissing into the void.

It's unbecoming of a lady.
Track Name: Durtyburd
Sauntering across the line,
I like to keep ‘em guessing.
Blowing kisses at the boys in the pickups.
Do you like my faggot mask?

Everyone's a jilted son of a bitch,
begging for every doled out glimpse of baseness.
Everyone's a jilted son of a bitch,
begging for a chance to be the top.

Everyone's a jilted son of a bitch,
performing for the thrill of bound hands clapping.
Everyone's a jilted son of a bitch,
performing for an audience of hogtied jurors.

Should I make a sad face and look at the ground?

And I've got your number,
and I've got you pegged,
and aren't you precious?
So fucking boring,
so fucking daft.