Band:	Kayo Dot
Album:	Coffins On Io
Style:	Avantgarde metal, Progressive metal, Experimental rock
Release date:	October 2014

01. The Mortality Of Doves
02. Offramp Cycle, Pattern 22
03. Longtime Disturbance On The Miracle Mile
04. Library Subterranean
05. The Assassination Of Adam
06. Spirit Photography

"Leaving the world behind is the best experience most feeble minds fear to try." - ― Michael Bassey Johnson

Ebb:
A yellowish horizon boasts numerous volcanic eruptions painting subtle shades of yellow, red, white, black, and green on the surface.
The sulfuric stench gives way to the pleasing aroma of a Korean karaoke bar; kimchi tonight.
An essence of soju, haunting, fills the ambient air. A sodium compliment helps with the musical absorption.
Greased with jun and soondae, we accept the harmony and melody as familiars.
A squid signs its name in ink.
We see a singer, can faintly make out "Toby" on his stickered name-tag, shrouded in darkness.
A dole of doves emerges from behind him, cascading shadows on the neon walls.
The lull of dissonant bass and staccato guitar picking comforts you. Happy memories come forth. Calm sets in.
Praying that I'm dreaming.
A steady drum beat signals the melatonin darkness away from our star's light.
Flying on a highway,
Push the needle.
A syringe scrapes against vinyl, your darkened companion resets its position and we journey on.
Just a little further. Faster, further. It seeps through. The record melts into the table.
The atmosphere of the room dissolves.
Fear tickles my amigdala.
I want to disconnect but my body feigns paralysis.
A headless figure stands over me.
There is no logic or reason in this encounter.
This entity wants to communicate.
I resist, numb and death to all. The message is lost.
Submit radio jack. The figure questions my consciousness in this plane of existence.
I am tranquillized and submerge further into the depths of my own cerebral electricity.
Spirit separated and body bound.
Tied to societal sorrow.
My search is betrayed by my own anxiety.
Flickering, suffering, suffocating.
I put on my stinking astral mask.
A fire of orgasmic shame lights my way.
I am powerless over this demonic carnal urge.
Shameful suffering shadows this sexual deviation.

Flow:
I tried in vain.
Looking at these lyrical pictures of dreams.
My mind can only piece them together in a way that makes sense to me.
There is no logic or reason in this encounter.
The liquid groove washes over me in synthetic overtones.
Multiple syncopated layers give way to a starless sky.
Bible black and cold.
Dissonance and anxiety return.
Frantic percussive skins crawl over my body.
An ominous sax condemns my trespassing of the subterranean library of forbidden knowledge.

Rapid movements and familiar metallurgy.
Spatial disorientation.
Saccule and utricle estrangement.
Metapods crack and my butters free against the gravity of guilt.
Woodwind breaths flutter.
Adam is assassinated, and our beginnings become clear.
I take a photograph.
I shiver and try to shake off the negativity.
Transitioning into a contemplative mood.
Sorrowful overblows from conicul tubes read volumes to me.
Bass plods guide me back.
I remember this house.
I listen to this demon as it watches me and rolls across the floor.
Centuries come rushing back, innate.

Waking up, I peel the hard-wired stimulant from my crawling skin.

I had too much to dream last night.