History Wringing

by Kieran Monaghan

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Dedicated to the memory of Alan Brunton. Released originally on Pseudoarcana then discontinued.
Apologies for the less-than ideal quality of the artwork. the original art files have corrupted and this is the best we are left with.

There are no longer any physical copies of this album left available.

Please, after downloading, remove any silence between tracks. History Wringing was composed to be played as one continuous piece.

Bonus track: Strange Council - available with the purchasing of album.


released January 10, 2002

All loops, percussion, drums, text, and noise K Monaghan




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Track Name: The Continent of Detritus
The word is lost behind cards and party lines,
the word is never The word.
The word defends itself aggressively.
The word is proactive.
The word is masked by others.
The words meaning is lost.
The word has no commandments bible or religion,
the word is rewritten each day.

The world fractures under the assumption that it was ever whole.

Time continues unhindered,
and its true meaning unknown.
Hands move at bus stops
moving around old technology.
to conversed words
of household solvents,
vacuum cleaners,
washing machines,
and exhibitions of manly prowess.

Waiting between filler.
Some notice the decay of paint,
the breakfast of rust,
the dressings of the gutter,
spittings of yesterdays words.

It is the living space of the most.

Like many,
some make effort to never notice,
you catch your bus
never knowing what you really left behind.

and ideology riot.
The decay is constant.
The blue bleeding of old tattoo,
capitalisation of the kibbutz,
the death of the poet,
the decay is constant.
A lesser studied principle of physics.

This global continent of detritus,
recognised by no print house,
map maker,
or tourist brochure.
Track Name: Cut Apples
Just outside the border,
stand looking away.
Some eyes singing tears
some say at last.

Over small burners,
into steaming snow,
they cut apples.

Everything’s white,
except the orange
of the headlights
into the dusk.

Without movement,
all we can do
is stop
and stare.

Everywhere else
is refugees and soldiers,
curtains are down,
theatre seats in dust.

This history is covered,
in carpet snow,
draped in cold comfit.

the ice melts
beneath our feet
Track Name: Icarus
Hey, encouraged one,
reach for the stars,
grab em , rip them
from the sky.
Yeah, safety exists
within the distance,
vacuum, drunken solace,
where you can be seen
to be flying,
you can never
take flight!

Compelled son
the mechanical glow
to the brightest moth
still dulls the night.
Through open doors,
the light blinding,
seen in others burnt.
Bravo for the boy
who sees scars
as motivation
for others defeat.

The body balanced
between math and change,
blown by wind.
Under the illusion
of stars revolving,
within the dead light
of history
inside the orbit
of make-believe gravity,
free from memory and sight.

For the arrogance
Icarus didn’t need the sun.
Track Name: Mercators Map

Know knowledge and power merge,
and for the studious profit.
The world is only soft and hard,
so from the high seat take it.

A blind eye to the world,
be blinded by your own light.
The mouths view’s only meaningful,
when seen with European hindsight.

Stars are the lies of tonight.
Stars are the light of history.
I see no lines carved on the ground,
map marks are lies of boundaries.

An index of colonised lands,
like an index of collection.
Here be ships and here be monsters,
here be European protection.