Dog Years: The Best of Language of Prairie Dogs 2005​-​2020

by Language of Prairie Dogs

/
1.
Whenever I think about The Shining, I think about the loveliness of the proposition of Jack's employment, and of the tragedy of how he blew it so completely. I keep my particular fantasy of working in a lighthouse (I'm sure, completely at odds with the reality): Distanced almost immeasurably and yet critically necessary. I relate my fantasy to a friend who looks back at me and, wolfishly, quizzes me on why I want to live in a giant penis. 'Because I hate people, that's why. That's why I want to live in my giant penis.'
2.
"I have said to myself and others that I'm going to swim that river or die trying - and I mean that quite literally. I could die in that river, but that is not my intention. My intention is to swim through the rainforest to prove something. In 1963, Dr Martin Luther King had a dream that changed our world. I too have a dream. My dream is to swim the Amazon to prove to the world that nothing is surmountable."
3.
I tell (to death) a memory of a rat - 'big as a fucking pig': it swaggered between tables as if it owned the premises. I can't do anything but tell it (if not to death) to wall its room. It owned that grotty garden that fucking Sunday afternoon, where it can shelter in the dark. I have a kitchenette - no toilet, yet - but shower, sofa, bed; the next rung is self-containment (must aspire). But who said I'm not accommodating. I fought the mice into the floors and if they stay there they can stay here; out of sight, out of my thoughts. They can shelter in the dark. The edges of my vision should be still - drifting with dreams; not crawling with cockroaches. Quick, then still. Every beast should have a fear and dread of man. This - 'big as a fucking mouse' - still; steadily looking. I leap from sofa to bed; bleat- no - command - it: shelter in the dark. Let me sleep - like the mice. It tracks under my bed. That doesn't comfort. I've obliged its stolid claim on majesty, as I have flattered rats. But it should know it in its composition, antennae - from its armoured hind down to lowered, bullish head - it should know that it is flattened. I'm rattled. But that's its only card - the rattling. That translates quickly to wrath. It should have lived inside the walls. Can only fall on the warpath.
4.
She looked down at his cookware and fanned her arms. 'Vous ne pouvez pas allumer de feu içi - le feuillage prend façilement feu.' He watched her arms, then the flow of the brook, and contemplated: 'The stream floods.' (Raising his own arms): '"Rises?"' 'Le terrain est très sec. Le vent sec propage le feu.' He looked up past the scrubland and into the forest. 'We'll relocate further up. Thanks so much for warning us. Away from that river. "Flash floods" We will go up.' She swept animatedly at the valley as if conducting an orchestra. 'Un petit feu peut façilement s’étendre et brûler une fôret entière. Vous comprenez?' He nodded hard, pointed: 'Thank - YOU. "WOOSH!" Our "STUFF"! We will go - UP.'
5.
And here, she advises discretion by spelling 'fucked' with numbers and saying 'please' with seven 'e's. It's like reading felt tip or the self mockery of a child imitating a toddler. You all be well warned, here. Eight months. Culture and habit fail to acquit her from her juror's oath. Send her to the cells, please. Anyone want to follow her? Some things are real and I will not have a juror chortle to a defendant 'Don't be a stranger, pal well av meet up' and exchange lower case acronymns and commentary. Now he or she following in her footsteps will find themselves in her company. They can go and 'pal' right up. I didn't get up to make speeches like this, to bark at the damned sea. I'm the Lord Chief Justice and we are adults (that we made it this far, makes me speechless). Now let us attempt to proceed.
6.
I was digging holes in a plot of soil, Rooting out tangleweed. She had found a frog, was herding it about me Was dribbling it between her feet. And it let off a noise – shrill, loud, sustained – About as far from a 'ribbit' as a tin whistle a bassoon, She weaved it shrieking round a gauntlet of clump grass and thistle And I felt sick to see the glee on her face, so I acted By scaring her away with a shuffle of my foot, Scooping the harassed amphibian on my spade. I tossed it into a nearby bush And left it up to God. Then I moved from tangleweed, started on Alpinum seeds, Then she caught a bird for me. I think it was a blue tit – Pale breasted, round, petite – Specks of blood on its feathers. She dropped it on my lavenders, Where it lay near-motionless. Only on closer inspection Did I notice its small, round beak Opening and closing weakly – very quiet. She had crushed its throat in her jaws, Rendering throat useless as an air duct Which meant that the blue tit was suffocating, While she, in fascination, looked, And I found this quite distressing. So I trod as hard as I could on the blue tit's head. A sort of mercy killing – a quicker death. And though it took two stomps to crush it dead, My hope is it pipped suffocation. Because that was the intention. I went black inside, feeling pretty sordid The blue tit was suffocating. It made my day morbid. So I went back inside and had a cup of tea.
7.
Foxes (2008) 03:30
I wish I wasn't here, but awake In the middle of the night Listening to what shouldn't be a fox Cat played backwards Jeered by tropical birds Through a snout Shouldn't be a fox.
8.
I hear a sound from round the corner People have flocked across the foyer A drunk man starting up an altercation With a library user Ripped from the user by security Flung out in threats, taunts and gestures The angered victim left recovering with concerned onlookers One of whom posits an answer: "Turnstiles! To protect the space from abusers!" I catch it twice but sort of tentative, Then repeated a lot surer: "We need some sort of turnstile system! Entrance retracted from non-members! Turnstiles!" Drunks rain down, collapsing on us, Daring absurdities out of us Since when was someone's member status A sign of benign inner purpose? They're vetted only for names and address Tabs kept only on the books they've debted And we're not a Tube station Or a public lavatory
9.
'What are you going to do with him, Cardinal? My stomach crawls when I'm near him. My duty must be - in some way - to forgive him. But his new defiance...he speaks, now, against remorse. Now, the very words I use to shepherd me back - where I may err - he twists back on us, like they mean something different. He's lost his shame in his acts-' 'This vase - whose is it, father?' 'Yours.' 'Correct. Now - smashed here on the ground - whose is it, now?' 'Still yours.' 'Look, the floor's now covered in ornamented glass. Cracked glyphs, shards of patterns - look - with edges that could slit your neck as quietly lacerate your palms as you stoop and gather them. Correct - it's still all my glass. You should know my metaphor by now - my answer. I've smashed a lot on this floor to show you - repeating it. Shattering things I can't then unbreak, then stooping and cutting my hands on it.'
10.
We can't speak with you again. I can speak of and at you. We tried all of the above, we cast in marble, at your side, a thing that brought such obvious pleasure to your eyes. At your side, a stone Teletubby. It hurts to think about your name. Baby, I struggle to to say your name. What words - said or lettered - could cradle you? Baby, I just want to speak something. Both of us - we want to speak something. Something. Anything. To anyone. The stones aren't nothing. The smile's not nothing of all our love of you. I love you! That will stay. Can't make it better. I can't utter - I can't stutter anything that will weather, that will stay. I know she's straining when she says I did justice to our feelings. The stones aren’t nothing. The smile's not nothing of all our love of you. Everything here - vying for eminence, record, or penitent. Unravelling into the earth. Going down in silence.
11.
It's cold outside There's no kind of atmosphere I'm all alone, more or less Let me fly far away from here Fun, Fun, Fun, in the Sun, Sun, Sun I want to lie shipwrecked and comatose Drinking fresh mango juice Goldfish shoals, nibbling at my toes Fun, Fun, Fun in the Sun, Sun, Sun Fun, Fun, Fun in the Sun, Sun, Sun
12.
Whenever I think about The Shining, I think about the loveliness of the proposition of Jack's employment, and of the tragedy of how he blew it so completely. I keep my particular fantasy of working in a lighthouse (I'm sure, completely at odds with the reality): Distanced almost immeasurably and yet critically necessary. I relate my fantasy to a friend who looks back at me and, wolfishly, quizzes me on why I want to live in a giant penis. 'Because I hate people, that's why. That's why I want to live in my giant penis.'

about

LOPD timeline 2005-2020: towerabove.co.uk/LOPD_TIMELINE.jpg

Watch the 2008 video for Jury's Out:

Vimeo - vimeo.com/503123086

YouTube - youtu.be/pkTntEpPeSk

credits

released January 21, 2021

Language of Prairie Dogs were Dean A. Sobers & Matt A. Kaufman.

Written by Language of Prairie Dogs between 2005-2018
Except Theme from Red Dwarf, composed by Howard Goodall in 1988

Engineered, produced, mixed & mastered by James Aparicio, Chris Killen & Matthew Alexander Kaufman
Drums recorded & engineered by Buzz Allan

Artwork:

Cover image by Oscar Ingham: oscaringham.co.uk

Band image by Nieve Walton O'Brien: www.instagram.com/wob.n

Timeline image by Eliza Clark: www.instagram.com/ibupropen

Ⓟ Brown Dwarf 2021
cat. no. 2MASS J1047+21

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Language of Prairie Dogs Manchester, UK

If music journalists are failed musicians, then what does that make us? We are failed musicians AND failed music journalists:

thequietus.com/articles/05029-looking-for-water-jj72-interview-review

contact / help

Contact Language of Prairie Dogs

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Report this album or account