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lyrics
A Dereliction of Judy
The killing of women is an industry
You said “Pretty girls are the despots of small towns”
“They stride liquid-hipped down estate alleyways, lounge under the circus illuminations of shopping centres; draw on slim cigarettes, swallow playgrounds whole. They are extra-terrestrial and impossible.”
“If you grew up in a small town, as I did, you know them,” you said, “you’ve seen them,” you said, “names are on the tip of your tongue even as I speak. Despots. Tyrants. Unauthorized monarchs.”
O woe on thee!
O woe on thee!
There is the sense of some great and terrible loss, perhaps the image conjured is of a childhood keepsake or treasure slipped between floorboards or pulled from your fingers, a childhood keepsake or treasure fallen into a great black space, a mouth, or a well. A lucky penny: falling. A favourite toy: falling. A piece of you: rudely excised and falling.
A single high note descending, a viola, perhaps a cello, dry-stringed and in free fall, no end to the depth of the tone; down and down. Down and down.
The sound of tearing.
You thought yourself somewhere but then, somehow, you have been shown to be, have found yourself, quite elsewhere, your feet on shifting ground. Something about a broken promise, a fraudulent IOU, the reneging on an invisible contract.
But then the keepsake is you, you the favourite toy, you in freefall, inhaled by that black throat; you: falling.
Your self-pity and your cowardice are your defining characteristics. You wear them like a stain. Like a playground tattoo. Like a birthmark.
Pretty girls are the target, but all will foot the bill.
Pretty girls are the target, but all will foot the bill.
O woe on thee!
O woe on thee!
There is the sense of some great and terrible wrong, perhaps the image conjured is of some balsawood construction, some rickety injustice.
And memories of childhood tears, of toes made fists in your shoes, of the strangled cry of tantrum, of notfairnotfair.
Flashes of stock footage, of slaughter, of butchery, animals skinned, peeled, gutted, cored like apples, some inner kernel, some oily mass, some slick crimson knuckle pulled from them; shelled like peas.
And all of this congeals into a kind of grand fresco of pain, and your mouth becomes a mask of it and your fists curl themselves like startled snails and fear is everywhere on you, like an army.
And you just want to hurt something. And you just want to kill someone.
And you just want to hurt something. And you just want to kill someone.
And pretty girls are the fodder of small towns.
Pretty girls are the fodder of small towns.
Pretty girls are the fodder of small towns.
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