Get all 11 Cary Grace releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Lady of Turquoise, Sacrifice (Single), Without a Trace (Single), The Uffculme Variations, Tygerland, Constant Things, Green Carrot Jam, Vanishing (Single), and 3 more.
Excludes subscriber-only releases.
1. |
The Scarab
03:49
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Do you move among steel tyrants?
Do you move invisible?
Through the desert, steps are silence—
ancient and inscrutable.
Hot wind, gilded paper flutter—
bleaching bones; ivory dust.
Powder tongues of nothing mutter,
“What of longing? What of lust?”
From horizon to horizon...
Where are all the scrolls of wisdom?
Where are all your acolytes?
Pressing on forever,
ever fleeing from a million nights.
Gravity may press an imprint,
fleeting as the flame above,
but darkness fills your every footprint—
such is hatred; such is love.
In an alabaster winter:
needles of obsidian.
Were your icicles to splinter,
we would know the fire then.
From horizon to horizon...
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2. |
Between the Pages I
01:44
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3. |
Cassiopeia, 1572
13:11
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4. |
Between the Pages II
01:13
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5. |
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As the trees above you,
as the Earth beneath,
all you oppress shall love you—
with hate behind clenched teeth.
All the gold you gather,
all the grain you reap,
is a plague upon you,
slumbering in sleep.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
The circle, when it closes,
will see your card reversed.
Trampled are your roses,
and your throne accursed.
Red will be your banner,
black will be your name;
suspicion be your manner,
and deep will be your shame.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
Perfect is your beauty,
and gleaming is your crown,
but ruined is your country—
your fortress falling down.
Many are your riches,
but surely as you go,
the ones from whom you borrowed
will take back what you owe.
Who will bring you water?
Who will bring you wine?
You are Fortune’s daughter—
you are no child of mine.
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6. |
Between the Pages III
00:59
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7. |
Dreamcatcher
04:17
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There is a way, a way ahead.
There is no destination.
There is no end, end of the line—
only another station.
Cast some words upon the wind—
maybe someone will catch them.
Scatter dreams upon the wind—
maybe something will happen.
There is a place, a place within—
a place that has no boundary.
Perhaps I will invite you in,
so you can travel with me.
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8. |
Between the Pages IV
01:29
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9. |
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A silver wind breathes low,
beyond the poison trees,
where tortured spectres flow
into the metal seas.
Medusa holds the glass
at edge of chasm black.
As statuary still,
reflections flicker back.
Reach to the end of night,
float over strange plateaus,
Where syllables of poetry
cascade like dominoes.
[a walk from wind to wind
reaches the end and keeps going
circular as the idea of horizon
balancing starlight on narrow edge
and there is a sound of jangling atmospheres
ringing with the swift ghosts of fires
countenance of petal white
eyes for holes and holes for eyes
vivid blindness clearest sight
carried by decaying flight
the glide to ground
and then the sound
is sharp not round
is tightly wound
with shrieking pitch
the running stitch
leaves no loose threads untangled
words spoken never arrive
but are suspended
by the letters of a frozen alphabet
meaningless as forgotten constellations]
The swallower of many suns
is hiding in the forest.
Eyes as bright as diamonds,
and dark as helleborus...
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10. |
Perpetual Motion
20:22
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Porch light, topaz, tangerine,
beaming through the dusk—
dim through the swirling mosquitoes.
Humming electricity: heat lightning,
lightning crackling,
must be perpetual motion.
Screen door closes on July;
air hangs heavy, heavy.
This book will close, will close forever.
Time recalls only the cover,
but you are pressed between the pages,
pressed between the pages.
Deep pulse in a flat vibration.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a rustle in the leaves.
There’s a ticking like an echo,
ticking, pricking shivers up your sleeves.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a pounding in your head.
There’s a clicking like a clockwork,
clicking, clicking, filling you with dread.
There’s a buzzing at the window.
There’s a hissing in the mine.
There’s a chiming in the tower,
chiming, climbing, clanging up your spine.
Strange dream of a wheel that’s spinning—
round, round, round no centre.
Cold, cold, there’s a wheel
that’s spinning round—
come to take the summer,
take the summer.
Must be perpetual motion...
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Cary Grace UK
Cary Grace is an American expat, residing in England since 2005. She is as much at home wielding a soldering iron as a
guitar, and runs
Wessex Analogue, manufacturing Wiard brand boutique modular
synthesizers. She devotes as much of her free time as possible to making and listening to music, and finds much of her creative inspiration exploring the beautiful English countryside by motorbike.
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