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The Answer

from Monday Machines by Monday Machines

  • Limited Edition CD in Hand-printed Gatefold Sleeve
    Compact Disc (CD) + Digital Album

    The gatefold sleeves are hand cut, glued, and folded from recycled card stock, which contains embedded flecks of banana skins (left over from feeding animals in a UK animal park). Each sleeve is hand printed in black ink. No two are exactly alike. A hilarious eight-page hand-made lyrics booklet/instruction manual and photo strips are enclosed. Numbered limited edition of 50 copies.

    Also includes immediate download of 7 track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire, plus a bonus nine-page PDF booklet containing full lyrics and high-resolution photographs.

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Agents of anarchy, whirling in scarlet,
Pounding a rhythm of blue.
Beneath the ocean, the night is eternal—
I'm tumbling, luminous, through.
Through the terrible window, a plague of connection
Consumes all the letters you sent,
But why would I shatter in thousands of slivers
The meaning, to know what it meant?

On the edge of a blade,
At the turn of a corner,
At the top of the sky
In the golden light wander—
And there is the answer,
Always, the answer—
But when is the answer
Always the answer?

I know I am not real, but the knowledge is helpless—
I'm rattled by blindness of sight,
I'm spinning on wheels, and turning on tables,
Dropped from an impossible height.
And now there are words where there should be spaces—
White sky filled with birds with white wings—
This much is clear: nothing here is transparent.
The truth, unfamiliar, it rings.

On the sparkling eye, on the drift of a feather,
In the dome of the shade, we will wander forever.
There is the answer, always, the answer—
But when is the answer always the answer?

On the crest of a tear that is falling forsaken,
On the burst of a flowering joy,
The reaches are endless—we follow the river—
That which we create, we destroy.
And deep in the caverns, most desperate of whispers,
Whispers a word still unknown—
Drowned by the seagulls, the syllables falter,
Fall under the paradox drone.

At the end of the wind, on a wave of confusion,
With the politic prince on the throne of illusion,
There is the answer, always, the answer—
But when is the answer always the answer?

Come with me now, there is no time remaining!
Upon perilous carousels whirl—
Gathering ghosts drift like pale ballerinas,
In costumes of opal and pearl.
Run from this place! I was never a dancer!
All the motions are only for show.
This is demolition, this is revolution—
The only way left we can go.

On the brink of collapse, in the terror of sundown,
On the bridge 'cross the chasm, standing outside the picture,
In the wheelbarrow mouth of the captive announcer,
On his tightly stretched skin, chasing metronome whiplash,
Deep in eyesockets burning over mountain range rushing
All the furniture useless to any remaining
Dehydrated husks of the mountaineers crumble
Bolted to avalanche, driven through snowdrift
And whenever they speak now, they are saying the same thing:
There is the answer, always, the answer—
But when is the answer always the answer?


from Monday Machines, released April 17, 2010
Cary Grace: vocals, electric guitar, keyboards

Allan Coberly: electric guitar

Andy Budge: bass

David Payne: drums


all rights reserved



Monday Machines UK

One day, Allan Coberly's morning was ruined when he was rudely awakened by jackhammers and bulldozers. Cary Grace talked him into recording the noises from his window, and the rest is history.

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