Archeologies from The Ceylon Press Podcast Por David Swarbrick @ The Ceylon Press arte de portada

Archeologies from The Ceylon Press

Archeologies from The Ceylon Press

De: David Swarbrick @ The Ceylon Press
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From disco to disappearance.Copyright The Ceylon Press 2025 Arte Biografías y Memorias Ciencias Sociales Historia y Crítica Literaria
Episodios
  • Songs Without Music

    Songs Without Music
    Nov 6 2025
    So Watch So watch my flesh decayand see how beautifully it goes;like something asking to be loved;like you, too shy to ask meto your room;marks that will survive are marks on skin and mind:not you with me,not face to face;and only this,a last decaypitching to hide itselfwhen each has gone their way. Cause Under empty skiesair finds no flags;people march but the bannersare burnt; the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. My fist is flat,the truth is traded;there is nothing left to kill foror to honour. the worldis bleeding into hell,and into hellthe worldbetrayed. Angel I bought a glass palace in Paradisewith a pool and fifty rooms;and off its slender flagstaffI can fly to the moon. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. I’m alive and free so look at meI dream at the top of the sky;my fingertips are strips of jade -there’s no way I can die. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. Welcome, roll up, welcome,watch kings and princes sigh;they beg to use my golden wings.they beg to learn to fly. I’m god in the city, god in the town,I came from hell but I’m here;from nighttime to nightfallmy parties do not end. City of Fear Last night I flew over the city of fear;dark coated people came down the streets;they had angel eyes and shrank from light;they looked at me and wished to fly -but they couldn’t grow wings. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Moon high, my rocket feathers carry me freeI see the late night-clubs open up,the curtains of private room drift apart;the battle’s over, but in coloured light,the battle starts again. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. People wait with wet wide eyes but the gods have gone,the night goes on;coins rattle in their mouthsthe gates have closed. And in the endit’s the end that living’ about;they do not know how to gothey can escape no morethey have turned to saltinside the doorwaysof this city of fear. Heros Come kill the heroes,tear the faces from the walls;there’s no misleadingleads us closerto Hell. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Pictures in magazinesblow up their public lives;the roles they playkill for usand lie. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. Wars won in cinemasare all we never were;and all we ever arejust turns to dust. In every street, in every roomtheir faces stare, they take the air,they grin and cheat and stir us;they’ll do anything for us;live our lives the way we want,the heroes. River Night-time holds me down and emptyopen to the flood;nothing stops the river breaking in,stops the riverbreaking me. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Faces, and the colours tastedturn the years I have not lived;take the lost road back,take the roadunsaid. Not sleeping, not waking,I’m trapped in the dark –cold shadows surround meclosing around me;it’s the dream worldof a lost worldof a world that never was. Cold City In rooms and bars the city throughI see you face the same;every word and touch we makerecalls our needs again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. Yet when love moves and speaksits eyes are flat and closed;and every time we want to giveit suddenly lets go. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. We scare of loving, loosing dreamswith this love that must not saywith this love that cannot everdeclare itself again. There’s no time for holding backno time enough for fear,and if you wait foreverthere’ll just be nothing there. So hold me on your fi...
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    12 m
  • Pilgrim

    Pilgrim
    Nov 1 2025
    1 in tight lines a dozen houses line the winter wheat – already: frail bungalows with front lawns, at the village edge; homes, already, transitory as inns, and clamped to a new access road that slices though the down. diggers have quarried the chalk - upended it; torn out the clay beneath -heavy, dark,greasy as abattoir meatembedded with flints,clewingto a long-departed sea. in a web of cul-de-sacs,of silent gardensof chipboard walls history is being forgotten; the land is practicinghow to die. SNODLAND, MARCH 1977 2 clouds clogthe river’s fallen level - a dry dayat the furthest edgeof summer; at the month’salmost-final,almost-end-point, flat and still; indestructible. hay,cropped in silent meadowsrests in long gold lines; the battles to be foughtare far away;nothing is corruptible; now is all there is. THE RIVER BEULT, AUGUST 1977 3 wadein the corn wavesundisturbed; come home -there is no toll; the hip-grasswill conceal and recall; fearing no fall,the dusty greenwill restore the world, its marks, its scars - bring itto a field of sun - to this home,crushed outwithin it. NEAR CRANBROOK, AUGUST 1977 4 of coursethere are grander thingsthan this Victorian rebuildingof medieval stone; but not for me. for eight years i have beenits steadfast visitor, a pilgrim of sorts,returning to a placewhere nothingis urgent; where custom points, like transepts,to the enfoldingfields and woodsfirst written in Doomsday. THE CHURCH OF ALL SAINTS, BIRLING, MARCH 1978 5 amongst the few remaining leavesof last year’s autumn, daffodils shakein a slight breeze; they lord it over the wilderness - the stone angeldrowsy under moss; the mausoleums,rectangular, preoccupied; the crooked tombstones,dreaming of placesother than this; the sleeping columbariaspread betweenthe shot green shavingsof recent trees - defiant,redeeming. BIRLING CHURCHYARD, MARCH 1978 6 winter rainhas darkenedthe hayrick’s sides; nowa nine-hour sunexpands upon it, restores it,saves itwith lengthening days; returning all. SNODLAND, MAY 1978 7 onlyon the roadbetween the trees; onlyon Birling Hilldo i evadethe day; slip the sununder leaf; freewheelon the scarp, believing onlyin Cistern Wood and Coney Shaw,in Stonebridge and Ley; in the fields that flit by, worshipping onlythe swift dark woods, the down’s allegiantoak, and beech, and chestnut - saved by speedeach timei turn intothe ceaseless haze. ON BIRLING HILL, JUNE 1978 8 nowthe cool weaveswhite; the high dayends; the ridgesimplifies; the downlandtightens – a narrow gate,darkly green - trees opento an ageless sky; a time for nightjars, nightingales, sparrowhawks; and i amwashed away. TROTTISCLIFFE, JUNE 1978 9 this is a roadfor sunday walkers,wanderlusterswho go just so far,their communion curtailedby an absence of magic, fitted inbetween reading the papersand lunch, as is customary now. THE SNODLAND TO BIRLING ROAD, JUNE 1978 10 clouds shift; over the hillthe moon swells, the grass,dark this side,lights up - ignites a sudden thoroughfareshowing me the way,night by night,as i cycle sectionsof the old pilgrim road, all difficulties shattered, past fields of clover, cowslip;past Blackbusshe, Badgells Wood, past the Battle of Britain cross,
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    21 m
  • Border Lands

    Border Lands
    Oct 27 2025
    march 1981 having this, no fantastic hate can rob you; not devils, not warriors, not demons; nor even angels, spying from their steep slopes, nothing, truly nothing can rob you – nor even this town, that has a history of theft and mutilation:the churches empty, the homes neglected the parks choaked with weeds. you do not need to stay.you do not need to pay.april 1981i’ve not wordsenough to say - i saw you walkingon the road today,nor eyes prepared to follow:folly ,prey.may i 1981eclipsing streets,a steady shore,an ordered crashof waves;through sunlight, shafts,marbled cloudsa far, far out horizon,unreachable;unbreachable.may ii 1981i amin envy of love;i am in envyof these two figures strong as the sun.i am in envy.june 1981how far do seas stretch?here, my love;beach, sand, dunes,and rocks, rising, cliffs, rising:we sit, hiddenin stumpyheat-drenched grass;a high hollow,spread with towels, a picnic, cigarettes:and two tight bodiescurled like babesobserving visions.july 1981on this shore – on every shorethe sea rolls, spreads,swobsexpandsexplainsbut we –you and i –we are fastened like limpets.we cannot leave.september i 1981the wavesof last night’s stormlinger, loiterinsistendure: they stir still;they stir now,white, wild, whippingthe heavy sea is not becalmed;it slaps on jetties,smashes the sea walls,breaks up the boats;and we must shelter.september ii,1981i have cometo meet myself again –to catch up.find fault,find favour.it is the same homing, bleak sea,the same empty horizonblotted out by mist.my heart gives into it;beatslike a forbearing tide.october 1981behind me a television towerfeeds the air,feeds a hundred thousandunseen homes;feeds them all, gannetsrazorbills, gulls greedy as Ahabwith a rattle of stodgy voicesi cannot hear,mayday signalsfor the dying dayfor the yearning empty night.november i, 1981november.the pebbles are smooth,grey, oval, wet;they slide,roll,rattle;children gather driftwood;build bonfires.the inlet – south beach - lies under a muscle of white cloud;wheeling waveswhiten,spreada pale disappearing line;we breathe airno city has maintained;i sit on a washed uptree trunkgreatest of all.november ii 1981just above the line thrownby the strongest wave;just at that pointwhere the sand shelves,where it is wet, softer, darkerjust at that point – that is where the people group where the people watch, where they walkthrow stones;the pensioner too,in his fawn coat,we are just at that point – each day,same time, same placebeside the shifting sea.december 1981 hallo there.hey!hallo!i see my faceunder the street light;i see that when this passionhas gonethe shop’s glass window will remainreflecting it all back;everything bloody thingbut hazy, stickywith salt,it is my father confessormy witness to others who walk,like icatching their faces,in this unkind abrupt waylong before they are ready to own up; catching their features too soonin the vast unending night.february 1982 lean mountainsrise seaward,rock on rock;thin fields stretch,taut as canvassthe first lightgilds the couch grassacross Swyddffynnon,fills the hollowsfrom Pontrhydfendigaidto Ystrad Meurigruns goldover Cambria.march i 1982 unspeaking, we’ve watched the daywake and slide unfelt;old room in an empty house.our bodies lie still,unspent;under the huge grey skythere is no trade.march ii 1982 brieflyi remember lying in your lap,my stock against the nightelectrically charged,incriminated;my fingers familiareach contour knownas my own,the warmth and textureof your feckless flesh.april 1982her eyes coilaround a worldi cannot see;in her headare the smiles of friends,and elders,smiling sadly,as they will smilewhen she is dead.may i1982living by the seawe have missed the firstgraffiti of spring,the scrawl of buds on bushthe harsh soft hasty greenthe pebble beach is our park, cold and harduntranslated, unpreserved,seen in flashesmoment by momentwithout memory.childless,parentless.may ii 1982but for thisthere is no other world;this is the magic of your face,the fascination,the hidden sea - waves rearrange the light;currents coil beneathlike massive ropesencrusted with barnacleswrenching the waterdragging it this wayand thatdragging it into a warren of rolling whitecaps.this is the only place for love;this time my heart will take its ancient pathunseen.may iii 1982somewhere, somehow, something will end;just not be there; we’ll wonder why we ever looked;adjoin, ajar,elude, escape – the door will neverclose again.will never.may iv 1982remember that old image of summer;the blooming trees,heavy with green;the flower crowd and scent – someone sittingnear the house; someone playingthe music of old scores on the piano?it never was. get up and go; the door is open.may v 1982i cannot see it in your eyes, the lover, mistress, master - it is only the ocean i see –the eternal cross of lightdimming in the ...
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    24 m
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