Disc comes in a HANDMADE case which was meticulously and painstakingly crafted by Zachariah Holte using bits of torn and burnt pages, scraps from old books of poetry, pornography, textbooks on natural sciences and geography, foreign money, and religious scripture. Each case is HANDCRAFTED uniquely and tediously to provide the purchaser with a distinct and wholly exclusive piece of tangible artistic material. Each copy possesses at least two unique, special, and idiosyncratic texts which act as a ceremonious caption to the uniform photograph featured on each copy. The disc also includes a BONUS TRACK entitled "The History of Flesh (Regurgitated)" which WILL NOT be available anywhere else. Only 25 copies made!
Includes unlimited streaming of The History of Flesh
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edition of 25
Streaming + Download
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
A Triptych is a three panel audio/spoken word performance piece which features previously recorded vocal recitations by Jamie Mowrey, music by Zachariah Holte, and a poem of the same title by Zachariah Holte.
The human voice
Jamie's jewelry box
Milking what’s left of the emotional well, always fearing that tomorrow will be dry. I am tired, and I wish to sleep. Yet, I am either vainly denying myself necessities (i.e. sleep, peace) or feasting upon them with a deep indulgence. Balance is untouchable. Mediocrity is inevitable. How can it be so? How can I be so stupidly conflicted? So obviously at war with my ugly, hilarious contradictions? I have been asking myself unanswered questions for far too long. When will my mouth close and in the absence of my voice be action, movement, progression? Anyone can talk and dream, envision and scribble. Only the damned are stuck, inconclusive, divided…unmoved. Only a fool remains unmoved. And I am unmoved. I am still. I have been chained to my fears and resistance for so long that all I can do is dream my cowardly dreams in the darkness.—I wish to explode, vomit my emotions, make my own guts turn violently within me, reminding me of a life that was once here. Life that I tried so hard to control, it slipped from me, in a fall from grace. A deviation of reality has slowly taken its own shape, twisting my vision, so that I cannot see any longer what are afflictions of the world and what are afflictions I have brought upon myself.
Oh let me be nothing but a stone, a flower, a mere grave in the masterful Eden of your mind! Let me perish there in laborious disgrace, in toil, in the bondage of your wanton love. I will dig! I will break the soil of your flesh, depositing into the earth a forced progeny, to which the vanity of birth and rebirth can arrive each season everlasting.—Everlasting my misery!
Oh let me be nothing but a servant, a pariah, a vagrant of epiphany, in the delinquency of your youth! Let me fester and writhe in the appearance of beauty, of celebrity, of the animality of being. I will beg! I will lower myself into your depths, only to emerge in your murderous psychosis. A new witness to blood everlasting.— Everlasting my misery!
Oh let me be nothing, not a man, not a being, nor will I exist in your glorious avarice! Let me bathe in the amorphous; allow me to bathe in the putridity, in the voluptuousness of this spiritual desecration. I will atomize! I will become rapturous upon the mouth of your present station, rejoicing in this bestial incantation everlasting.—Everlasting my misery!
(I pull the branches back...)
Although I feel well grounded, with two feet firmly here in this cavity I have made for myself, I can feel the sweet swiftness that is a consequence of these winds of change. I see them pull at my hair and clothes faltering, and my heart and brain are in mid-balancing act when I am taken, admitted, to this place only I can find.
It was always a grey day, the temperature always too cool for the month; a thick rain, the kind of rain that chokes you upon walking outdoors, was right outside the bedroom window—it was in the way that you awoke on these days as though it were the weather that was allowing you to feel sentiment for a day, to cage the apathy, or weaken it just enough for you to feel the warmth of infatuation fill you up for slight moments. I could always recognize a good day by the way your eyes held life in those moments, and although I don't recall a smile, your face spoke of a similar gesture. A less flashy sister of the smile, a very subtle way of showing contentment. She was modest and exotic and entrancing, and I searched for her each morning upon my own awakening. To this day I believe that the hope I possessed for the time between mornings like that, the ones where hours past like minutes from the confines of lover’s sheets, and where your flesh in my possession felt deserved and just, that the time in between would soon diminish was what kept me going each day.—Sadly the moments grew thin and the sentiment grew weary, as everything did.