Not a word from the Sunday choir
Not a word from the people back at home
No regrets, but I’m feeling tired
My tray-table up, my lap belt buckled
In 14F, my eyes are closed tight
Thirty-one hundred feet high over Canada
I am riding on a swarm of yellow-jackets
A transistor radio in a thermos
Nothing back from the satellites
Nothing left, but our transmission
Forever retelling all our scripted words
And reminding us of everything that we ever did desire
Powering ancient engines tonight
Reaching wide these feathered wings in flight
Holding on as we come a little closer
Holding on as we come up to our full height
And mark the wall, and smile because we know
We have done this, and it is permanent
We have done this, and now everyone will see
That we are standing here, breathing, finally, and we have no regrets
I have never been afraid of fire, I have never been afraid of heights
But I have always been certain, that I should be
Consequently I’m surrounded with reminders
And I am currently trying to set the record straight
I am riding on a swarm of yellow-jackets
A transistor radio in a thermos
Nothing back from the satellites
Nothing left, but our transmission
Forever retelling all our scripted words
And reminding us of everything that we ever did desire
Hypnotic and texturally dense post-punk wound around elemental grooves from Vulture Feather, featuring members of Wilderness. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 13, 2023