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Splendour + Misery

by Deckard Croix

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    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of That's What You Do, {Renditions}, Marquis Verdigris, A Missa do Gallo (Midnight Mass), The Lurking Fear, French Diseases of the Soul, Eyes Touch, The Music of Erich Zann, and 8 more. , and , .

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Kimono 03:41
Kimono torn in the wind, porcelain skin dancing wild; With every motion is the whisper of a child. Black hair from cheek to cheek, his shadow leads your way; A waltz of shame and joy - your inner disarray. This dance of memory when eyes are filled with lust, Kimono lined with gold and precious to the touch. He says your skin is green, your eyes a gentler hue; The many gifts he brings describe the sky to you. If peace has war in mind, then splendour tastes like wine; A smile may crack their lips but yours are there to dine. Bold like a demon with a heart like no man. Something inside you or a castle made of sand. Your words disrobe the ear for wounds will always speak; The foreign bodies are the names you never keep. A feast of plenty when memory turns to dust; Kimono torn into a mirror of disgust.
You fancy yourself Caravaggio with your paintbrush and your cape Your virtuosic gait - this is your greatest trait. The Cardinal bathes your feet with gold which he drew from the lake Where many men have met their fate. You once told me everyone has a truth they must fake Like telling fortunes when your very life's at stake. (I suppose) I'll call you Caravaggio for the duration of this song This won't take long - you have a funny way of looking at the clock Expecting the end. The models you've chained to the frame haven't eaten for days; This is for what they are paid (you say). They point to the sky and say that isn't right. He awoke no longer Caravaggio - this was only the world he made. The work for which was paid.
Cendrillon 02:01
A delicate shell, a promising hell, she breaths at the perfect angle. Symmetrical face, resembling chaste, her favourite shape is a triangle. Ashen flesh with tattooed wrists, her god is a man named Gringolet. If the truth is told, her heart grew cold the moment she knelt and began to pray Cendrillon, a maiden born, after death and not before. Words as sweet as bergamote, masque complete, sweet to the core. Fingers slight with a desperate touch, her feelings just as languid. Eyes that spy but not too much, all is held in banquet. Musee Grobet-Labadie - to look but not to handle. To think about but not to say, there's honour in the scandal. Cendrillon, a maiden born, after death and not before. Words as sweet as bergamote, masque complete, sweet to the core. Eyes in bloom, a restless hue, a gamble for the pious. If the pay is right, resist you might, any price is a tangle, With words as sweet as bergamote.
The skies are red. The foolish said, The past was buried, soon forgotten. You are possessed, you know me best, And every word is common knowledge. Salutation Missus Thierry, you never lose you always win. Another kiss another story, and revelation is a sin. No two was kept, was nothing left, A dialectic brew for caution. Your lips are set; one day we met The night's a trick, the mystery's dawning. Affirmation Missus Thierry, manipulation once again. No more treacherous conversation, The future's here, the present's when?
The desperate quiet of the moon and stars, And the way she moves, the breadth of whom, The solitude, the commonplace, the trembling hand, To understand, her perfumed walk, her rehearsed talk, The way she says that nothing's set And all we are is what we represent. The Cartesian shift, the moment when our eyes collide, Isolation gone, the prefix of eternal time; The present finds what the future brings, (The world will turn either way), What come what may, So sister sit and part your lips, Let's represent. Where atheistic bourgeois trends and memetic conversations end; Existence precedes essence again, the passion to reinvent. God may be born in the death of man though passions wrought, That fleeting glimpse, may quell the fire of semantic plague. Our prison's vast, though our love may last and flourish for a guilty past, Signed in blood. The die is cast, our fortune clasped. Where atheistic bourgeois trends and memetic conversations end; Existence precedes essence again, the passion to reinvent.
Episteme 05:12
You have a thousand names, a thousand forms, you're everyone but secretly, scarcely here, illusory - the embodiment of mythology. Brevity beckons my speech when I talk about what is meant to be For we both know, till the end of words, Our speeches, our parlay won't be heard. (do you know, I think you know) Treason teaches us twice; we have two of all things, why not vice? At first loyalist, then conspirator. (I don't know, who are you?) The white one, the black one - all colours in your eyes; This vision you're having has no earthly price. Take comfort in knowing that nothing is golden, Believe what is told you for all is uncertain. On your right, on your left - you've borne enough burden. It cannot get worse for fear is the curtain, That shrouds the truth, the answer we all would like knowing, But knowing is the cancer that hides what it's showing. (do you know, I hope you know) But in all of that futile advice, some things are inevitably nice. Just forget about all I said before. (I don't know, who am I?)
Not for the faint at heart, not at seventeen. You'd tear my heart apart, to know what that means. If not for the finer arts, I'd have found true love. We were chosen from the start, it's in our blood. Our time was sweet but brief, or did I speak too soon? And like Serena Joy, you always knew. We couldn't tear our eyes away, they were only globes to gaze We couldn't find words to say, not for several days. Our future seen a world apart, a mirror held askew. And as for my throttled heart, this was nothing new. We brush thighs again, just in passing by, To remind the sky again, of better times. And I'm dreading scorn from friends, and only you know why, For to relive again, is flint to fire. This is the tale of 'vaggio, or one who felt we were through. Look like woman, think like man, and I was neither for you.
The black dog arrives, it boards the silver train It comes as no surprise, the train is late again. The train bears gifts, the conductors rings his bell The tunnel's dark inside, it's time to be born again. Who knows what we'll find, the sun betrays again No light can survive inside, the dark is creeping in. It's about time, this is the end of the line You say this is bliss, born into this Something's amiss, the serpent's hiss. You're suddenly close to tears, I apologise again Our destination nears, the journey can begin. The steam now subsides, the sun is fit to grin Trouble's on the rise, forgive me once again. 5 o'clock, 6 o'clock, 7 o'clock, 8 o'clock, It's time - this is the end of the line You follow the trail, over the rail, Around the pale, blue moon.
A heart to demonise, a body eaten by time, Name engraved on the side, refrain from what's mine Our ties as thick as blood, our demise the trick of luck Two heart strings to pluck. Prescribe a new love, describe a true love, Disguise a shrewd love With eyes as moist as thighs. You hope for the future, you hold what has passed Your eyes relive other sins, sins now safe with kin They smile when they meet you (again), but behind the... Smile is the smile of a child who doesn't wake up at night 'cause she's torn from a world where she's old enough to recall When two were one. Faces they come and go, will this Summer never end? Now that we're back to candlelight, you on your side and I on mine, And everyone we meet sympathise, they listen and nod and dry their eyes But when it's done, it's back to love. Prescribing a new one, describing a true one, Inventing a real one With eyes as moist as thighs.
Aconite 03:37
Time to tell of bodies, shapes born of a different kind; Sons who pry horoscopes, waiting for the Father to die. The bodies of giants, crushed beneath the structured earth. Cruel and violent, they were the children of blood. Violet brews of aconite, roots unearthed by Stepmother. She still smells of whiskey; silken knees and blue garters. With the price of Heaven, held within a purple fist; All proper affection, left in the blood-soaked mud. A dying tree grows pity, and bears ripened fruit. And though our chances are many, we must lose our youth. His heart swells like Jupiter, but his wrath is used and dry. His face looks like Lucifer, his looks are a natural lie. A weakness formed by violence, and what he can't deny. Tired maiden Justice, wishes she could cry.
Yarborough 03:11
There's leisure then there's none, there's three and then there's one Precious time's been spun, what's born is never young. And there ain't no kind of girl, to help me pour out the pain There's only one kind of fame and it's never to blame. And I don't have the money or the time, To go around spending dimes on friends like you Who go around spreading lies to friends like me. And there's gonna be a storm, it's gonna rain down on my head You're whole and then you're torn, yet dream to be reborn. A lonely preacher's psalm, and the night is getting long, There's right but yet there's wrong, two minds towards the calm.
Might as well call you Caravaggio, You wear your pride on your sleeve Heart beneath the smile Lips have been known to mutter, 'Caravaggio.' With word and gesture you reveal the lie The trick is in the truth You weave as we weave you The pleasure's always ours, Caravaggio. The colour of your pain when sunlight starts to wane, Is this true? A hue of chartreuse? Your cap is tilted just above the eyes A cloud to bridge the look A night to hide the 'why' Your mask is nothing, but shadow forsook. Praises you receive are cause for doubt Your trust always contrived Your home still displaced Your creed, your concern, yet to be derived. Give your soul, damn your pride Forsake country, forget ties. Might as well call you Caravaggio. Tell me one last time, your name again Then provide the proof, To prove again what's true, Might as well call you Caravaggio. The colour of your pain when moonlight starts to wane Is this true? A hue of chartreuse?
Calico 03:03
Summers grieve and dream, shooting me full of sings I live in a world of Fall, a yellow catastrophe He weighs a crystal ball, a finish for us all Between the world he's lain, Hell is an empty plain. And with a book in either hand, playing god playing man Looking for women with lips of silk. Just a mile from Avalon, and owing to chiefly shame We paper the walls with our skin, freedom splendour brings Crisisless, ruin-prone, this pinkie without a hand Ancient fires for windswept eyes, our immemorial moan. The heart is stiff, the smile grows old, Wherefrom she flies tonight? A handful of quiet, lightning fell silent, It's midnight at seven in calico.


With a markedly artificial aesthetic and elegiac lyricism, S+M provokes shades of season and sensibility. Lounged in reverberating dress, the cull of an innermost evening.


released April 4, 2020

Produced by Carrie Aldridge & Deckard Croix
Recorded at The Nest
Mixed/Mastered by Deckard Croix
Album Artwork by Amy Goh


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Deckard Croix Columbus, Ohio

There are many elements comprising Croix’s style, however, psychedelia, ambience, and musique concrete are the most predominant strains featured in nearly every project. Other recurring panaches involve atonality, dissonance, indeterminism, and droning. All Croix recordings convey a heavy preference for the lo-fi aesthetic. ... more

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