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    NOTE: This is the Digital Album. (Alternatively, you can purchase the Physical Album from the Merch section, which includes the book of artwork.)
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    Following in the footsteps of their previous release, Tangiwai, the album serves as a accompaniment to a book, with a limited physical run alongside a digital release in New Zealand. Eeling was recorded by Jackson Hobbs and Steven Huf, while Huf also mixed and mastered the album – his first release through a record label.
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    Eeling in every sense evokes the sentiments that this is something unique – not just in regards to its chosen physical release format.
    "... an album of new discoveries upon each wonderfully harrowing listen" - Cheese On Toast
    ... more

     $7.50 NZD  or more

     

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credits

released February 1, 2013

Recorded by Jackson Hobbs and Steven Huf
Mixed and mastered by Steven Huf

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girls pissing on girls pissing Auckland, New Zealand

Girls Pissing on Girls Pissing is Casey James lAtimer, Ak Buk, Catherine Cumming, Steven Huf, Brett Ryan and Alexander Knight.

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Track Name: Eeling
Infirmities of the moth
Aiwass waits,
he waits....

I cast his name
from Temple to throat,
bruising husbands to order.

I cast his name
from Temple to throat,
brandy melodies in the key
of our epileptic tongue.

Swastika window paint.
Track Name: Feast of Trumpets
We left tea bag silos littered in-between,
divided salt and pepper shakers,
to shake it.

Beneath telegraph posts and their lamps, the moths gather,
accumulating some wretched lottery
of how long your tongue
writhes upon mine.

Sleeping absorption eats at the moulding drapery.
Chlorine green weaving runes into the walls.
As we knelt in closets
of coats and their ghosts.

Knot the threads
onto the hooks
and sew them as roots
into her gills
and watch her green eyes
settle as creeks
you dredged your reflection from.

She dreamt she was swimming as I pissed the bed again,
throwing sharp stones at crowds of noisy birds
that sang out of step with the dance of her sleep.

She grinds her nervous teeth into leaves beneath her feet.
Posting dull prayers
in drab whispers to
cold dark figures
in vast gowns of mosquito.

We raced blood noses and placed wagers on the death tolls.
I wiped condensation off a dusty window pane
and became a black cloud
hanging above her head.

Knot the threads
onto the hooks
and sew them as roots
into her gills
and watch her green eyes
settle as creeks you dredged your reflection from.

Her well narrated flesh
spoke in litres and inches,
as I paint kittens
lapping up pink milk
As they removed her dead body
from the wreck of the milk truck.

I have harvested barren fields
to accept my cut
of the weeds.
As the moon climbs into the sea,
The hungry tides claim the seeds,
there is no living left to pay.
Walk to me, walk to me.
Walk to me with glass in your feet,
with blood between your toes.
Walk to me
on a tightrope of piano wire
Track Name: 15th Century
Communal riches,
witches to burn
Send the message to the men of your coven
Inflaming our lesser desires.
Chewing our ears off on our own terms, thank you!
False idols mean nothing here, mate!
We count our blessings on rosary beads,
play our livelihood in an endless dirge,
play to the ears of our blind priests.
We carve lightly
around the ruins of our pasts.
Cleaned the dressings of the old world,
masks and ointment to preserve our future sons.
Relief in the failure of ourselves in infancy.
Pray serve the thriving,
leave invalids out
to dry.
We pierced the ceiling of taxing
duties of our time.
Track Name: Fingers Down the Throat of Love
The milk is sour, you are scraping chairs
somewhere deep in the back of my head.
The hounds bark, they yelp at nothing,
into the aether and I am unsettled.
Low submarine tones waxing fucking hinges
I stutter at the hopscotch of your breath.
Hearses, they lead one another, hand in hand.
A dull procession, set below the dangling kites
dancing with the shadows upon the dead.

I will play mahjong
with your mosquito bites.
As the drapes are drawn
in a vast blanket of fog.
And bathe your swollen womb
in the loom of moths.
I could time your pulse
to the passing of coal trains.

Clipping the beaks and the wings off dead sea birds,
you always wear your hemlines at the tide levels.
I'm reading in, damp patches on your sheets.
In-between wet dreams I pin your kisses as if insects.
Clothed in the silence of dead children,
I will to pluck upon your ribs and weave your body into a hymn.

I will play mahjong
with your mosquito bites.
As the drapes are drawn
in a vast blanket of fog.
And bathe your swollen womb
in the loom of moths.
I could time your pulse
to the passing of coal trains.

Even the flowers embroidered upon her gown wilted
into diagrams of the fertility of the womb.
She crushes grounded mouths beneath her bare feet,
she sticks her pale fingers down the throat of love.
Because we are fluids, her piss it steams in the snow.
The ghost of her unborn is fertilised by my eyes.
With the God, and the adorer, I am nothing.
Track Name: Eight of Cups
The guests in my house, they are all dead.
I have become a dirty word.
These volumes will not speak, but make use as a flower press,
they are loose teeth I am cut upon.
I have a familiar, and she told me
she has a ship and we are out of here.
I post my prayers, between her unsymmetrical breasts.
She sucks out my marrow to stuff her dolls.

I do not admire your pen work, upon my lovers thighs and chest.
She invites you to her cordial party.
May this one who ran his tongue, upon the rim of my monthly blood
inhale and choke upon a foul Halloween.
May I swell like fruit within the pleasant mouth of your love
as I wipe my hands upon your shadow.
I forget she is in hospital, bathing in uncut grass,
chewing on the foreskin of a circumcised priest.

Her tree, it holds a swing
and a noose as stillborn twins.
I am raking its leaves
and pitting its fruits.
Irrigation that she carved
into her pale flesh,
but the crops still fail, and the cattle starve.

Counting stones, we broke each others houses
Counting stones, defile every home.
Counting stones, we broke each others houses
Counting stones, defile every home.

Arid barges distort upon the horizons,
the ebbing and dabbing of tides, slowly slate writing.

Counting stones, we broke each others houses
Counting stones, defile every home.
Counting stones, we broke each others houses
Counting stones, defile every home.

Girls, get out your fucking coathangers
this boy is unamused!
Girls, get out your fucking coathangers
this boy is on the prowl!
Track Name: The Dance of Salome
In rooms of mirrors and basins,
I am making beds for the dead.
I hum like a wet powerline,
drawing lines around my eyes.
Surly and dressed slovenly,
lanterns aluminate me.
Paper cuts across my skin,
you can lick to wash your tongue.

Gatherings in currencies:
Silver, salt.
In brides; in bribes.
An axe to the grind.

Treading gauntlets, I hail you
I hate you all, wall-flowers.
I cut bodies from nooses
to cure the soil and till the fields.
Now I am emptying bottles
into livers and bladders.
You changed your pills
Just as I got the jist of it.

Gatherings in currencies:
Silver, salt.
In brides; in bribes.
An axe to the grind.
Track Name: The Dowser
Pray for the dead...

Eyes formed in the knots of wood,
watching the dead wash up on the pulse of the tide,
all birds are perched, and stare out to sea.
The beating of their wings is keeping me sober,
I tear them off, to plug the sink.
To drown harlots and their unborn,
weathered by psalms knotted in carpentry.
My love inhales clouds that I exhale.
Sitting still she is pruning arteries,
with a rusted pair of nail scissors,
fencing with antlers spits blood from her bridal.
Pray for the dead...
for the living are too busy praying for themselves,
into gold bullet heads I etch their names.

I carved symbols into her feet, into her palms,
ironing out crosses and plucking in creases.

The moon and its influence upon tides and menstruation,
within its gown we are sniffing glue.
We take needle and thread to each others lips,
and chart starless skies to navigate T.V. snow.
An umbrella lampshade casts her a halo,
she writes a list of all the saints that got off upon penance,
with the dried blood between her virgin thighs.

The dew of ripe fruit clings to her lips,
as the cranes rust in ocean winds her libido slowly poisons swarms of
shellfish salivating.

As I wash her yoke off my face
I fondle my patients embroidered in blisters.
In dark dreams of desolations
from the saw wounds of the dead trees we suck sulphur.
The clouds are plagues hung over the black earth.

Undressed in wind farms,
your impression is cast in the sails, plucked out by the gales.
Pregnant and brooding,
sharpening her teeth on the bark of a dead inverted cross.
Counting bloody fingers reaching,
wean the moon of its blood pail murmurs of its slumber.
Herding rapings behind portraits,
unfurl and season me with petty autopsy.
Drunk on your bath water,
yawning a fermented frost upon blistered porcelain.
Crawling through heather,
discourteous wine stains mourn pailbearers of my lust.
Counting bloody fingers reaching,
wean the moon of its blood pail murmurs of its slumber.
Herding rapings behind portraits,
unfurl and season me with petty autopsy.

There is a transparency of love in-between nicotine silences.
I pondered in a seance of black smoke drifting gently
upward from crematorium chimney stacks.
Indian ink sinking deep into the whore of a sky...

I'll be the glass this time.
Track Name: Migraine Victims and the Cicadas
We played this out
on the trajectory of two steeples.
Your Aloevera is missing limbs,
for the sake of my many infections.
You hem my incisions as a dress
you have worn to far too many parties.
An exhausted trail drawn through a straw
runs the spine from eyelashes
of a girl who is dressed
as a wound.
Burn Jerusalem down to the ground.
No longer write
right to left
No longer write
left to right.

I sterilised each of whom
I took beneath my sheets,
as a needle to be shared.
Crossed knees ties off the bladder.
Beneath umbrella spires,
the sypnosis of the heathscapes.

I was casting lots
to flush you out from my eyes.
Not wounded enough
to be beautiful to you.
I'm afraid there's no work here
for a wet-nurse with a silver ring in each nipple,
whose eyes migrate like geese,
upon the newsprint up-skirts gifted from yesteryear.
These jaded window panes have worked
a willow tan deep into your cigarette wrist.
Waiting on the blood test.

With your hair as knotted as my stomach,
surrenders to crevasses.
The dread in the space between words.
So then drain the ballast,
for to bleed upon the pews.
The windows in your house
have forgotten how to close.

Then I burnt the damn hospital down.
Children, they all danced around
nurses who dressed their own wounds,
as doctors all hid in the flames.

I was casting lots
to flush you out from my eyes.
Not wounded enough
to be beautiful to you.
Track Name: Nine of Swords
She alights green plains of moss,
dismantling a crane fly.
Eels gather in darkened bends
of a swollen river,
crying out for blood and bone,
for the haunted soil.

Pluck a sombre dirge
on a rosary
for anchored vessels
to sway along to

We were hanging in the damned Church
of Latter Day Saints.
I pulled stained teeth from their mouths,
to cut the scriptures from their throats.
The lacerations, they draw milk.
It goes off in the light.

Here the sun is
a black spider
crawling over an acrylic white sky.

Under pylons upon silage mounts, feed your songs to masks and puppets.
We marinade in better bloods, your effigy reads my palms.
Mouths emit the cries of skill saws washing the scent from the plight of prayer.
In my dreams, I am worrying sheep.

We undressed to feed insects
in past baptismal waters.
We dry the ghosts out and take them to
creaking windmills upon the banks.
The dirty river grinds them down
to flour, for bread, for the Church.

We raise our poison stems
and spines unto the moon.
The hoax of Kosher salts,
the blood of halal meats.

An apparation is conceived,
as a cough torn from the throat
with the posture of a scythe
standing out in the reeds,
amongst the wrecks of beached U-boats,
with poppy seeds on her tongue.

With the toil
of a leaking faucet,
She pries out railway spikes
to crucify herself.

Under pylons upon silage mounts, feed your songs to masks and puppets.
We marinade in better bloods, your effigy reads my palms.
Mouths emit the cries of skill saws washing the scent from the plight of prayer.
In my dreams, I am worrying sheep.

Follow her footsteps,
cut in the frost on the grass.
I drink her beautiful.
The brisk parody of diagnostic bile.

I beg for alms to feed
the antique gales.
She wears her skin
like a nurses wardrobe.

I stole her skeleton
to coat in the fluids
of sick Yearling lambs
of whom dance upon their dead.

I can so carve
and colour the runes,
that the Hanged Man,
he walks and talks with me.
Track Name: Garden of Pomegranates
Plastic bag skin holds rotted fruit organs
Inside my compost doll.
I drink her cider blood
as she unfolds to me the architecture of the abyss.

I lick the silt off from anothers flood.
Upon her breasts and thighs
her spine crawls like a worm.
Through her back follows suit
with the scent of dead prophets.

Numerated jellyfish assemble blessed to form.
The dust cartilage of her ghost.
Shave your bones become translucent,
scrawling Nazi emblems deep into the margins where...

I knelt in a dream where all have numbers, none have names.
Count scars from wounds once bled by leeches,
she anoints the insects with diseases,
she picks scabs upon my lungs.
We synchronise our cycles.

Pulse wilts...
Ripples fade...
In a garden of pomygranates
drunk with the alchemists.
Crouched we crossed ourselves,
Dolled up for the Eucharist.

She holds an ankh knotted in her fingers.
Hid in tall grass cows lick our faces,
smiling seashells hiss incantations.
The last note due in this vile sonatas exorcism.

Qabalistic bee-stings upon her pale stomach,
she reads them in a bowl of vinegar.
Faces in the scoria whisper,
sharpen your tools, with blessings of Muharram.

A ballerina pivots upon a silver swastika.
I will not gnaw upon these dry bones.
Dig out placenta from beneath the dead trees.
White prescription handkerchief waves, to cloaked white pharmacists.

I fold her lips into the peeling wallpaper,
siphoning between choking, she gasps
"I am not fucking ruled by the stars!"
Wring out the cloths to veil, the virgins bruised fruit flesh.