The Oasis

by Cicada The Burrower

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released October 23, 2014



Cicada the Burrower is
Cameron Davis: Guitar, Bass, Drums, Synth, Vocals
Alexander Monday: Poetry

All music recorded and written by Cicada the Burrower
Additional vocals on track 2 by Keegan Waggett
Additional drums on tracks 4 and 5 by Nick Bartley

Artwork by Sawyer Hildebrandt



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Cicada The Burrower Madison, Wisconsin

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Track Name: The Birth of the Living
There was once an emptiness, that bore from the limitless darkness of its womb, all that would ever be.

For a moment, for an eternity,
A solitary glimmer interrupted Chaos.

From this minuscule ember, burned the passions
of the unimagined eons—

And soon, from the loins of this primeval night, time blossomed, unfolding across the reaches of the chasm.

With time, all that is known
by man and all that he does not know, reached the precipice of being—

And here, the fires of millenia
forged the lustrous aether, under the brown fog of the first dawn.

The dusts of time and matter tumbled forth, as the tumultuous waves of yet unborn seas—

And at last, from the nebulous storm, light emanated, more luminously, than from the most massive stars.

With the birth of light, came the first sound—
A sigh, like Jovian thunder, that roared across the cosmos.

I am told, that the sound can still be, heard by a practiced ear. It is the voice of god,
speaking of all that shall ever be.

In the desert, I first heard this story.
It was night, and I watched flames
leaping from a fire-pit,
as I listened.
Track Name: Pawns and Trivial Affairs
The moment is evasive.
They say to listen,not for the sound, but
its absence. I have pondered this
for some time.

My movie starts in five...

These are the salt-dusted pianese of gloomy, listless days, and I am payed to watch them.

They bloom explosively, and
they occupy my consciousness,
like tense apprehensions.

How are you... I think I'll have...

It is not a silent bloom,
like the weary opening
of the pink eyelids of spring lilacs...

It is a violent, effusive birth,
livened with the chatter of ten-thousand
bantam galaxies, unfolding.

It is the ossifragant crackle
of a glorious metamorphosis—
A turning inside-out.

A large butter, diet soda...

Before my humble eyes...
A universe erupts into being—
Each constituent part,
raining like asteroids,
falling to its place among
the multitude.

Is the popcorn burned? Why is there so much smoke?

I don't know, it does that sometimes.

Heat and pressure, that's all it is.
Track Name: The Rat Sermon
Once, the light bulb burst
in the popcorn machine.

It blazed like lightening for an instant,
and then in burned out.

The old projectionist—
(He has so many stories
about the way cinemas used to be.)
He told me where I could find a light
bulb, in a powdery, plaster storeroom.

It was deep within the theater's gut.
I needed a key.

When I got to the storeroom,
I pursued its messy shelves.
They were filled with forgotten objects,
rust-crusted hammers, fuses of various dimensions,
signs I had never seen before, and
a multiplicity of silver, moon-like bulbs
in ancient, water-marked boxes.

Entropy had taken hold of our provisions.
It was madness...

On the bottom shelf, in a dusty corner
of the room, I discovered
a large, glass mason jar,
containing a mummified rat.

I was compelled to examine
its gruesome remains.

The rat's eyes were like dim pearls,
and its mouth was held rigidly
agape, as though time had preserved
the moment, of its final breath.
Its carcass was emaciated,
like a weeping corpus, over
a purple congregation.

Soon, the rat's struggle had dawned on me.
Its pernicious fate had been starvation.

How long had it been trapped?
How ghastly! To view freedom,
like this wretched creature,
from the bindings of mortal captivity.

Had it struggled? Perhaps...

Perhaps, it had clawed frantically at the walls
of the jar.

Perhaps, it had squealed to
an indifferent silence. Pleading
for its amnesty, to the stillness of this place.

With or without struggle,
at a certain point,
fatigued, famished, and discouraged,
the rat laid upon its side,
and waited,
for the mercy of a failing heart.

This is all I knew of its death.
Track Name: Life By Projection
I stand atop this glistening, byzantine spire,
the eye of my kingdom,
so that I may remember something, lost
to the crumbling ages.

From this eagle's perch,
I survey my cities,
from the glowing, pallid marble
of their Eastern walls,
to the Western sands,
carried by the steady breath of the sea.

My eminence is affirmed,
by the drumming of the legion's march,
by the laurels at their rest,
upon my brow. And should the proud
patricians stay their ardent daggers—
Bury them in hearty hams, instead,
I may reign, like god, forever...

but I have suspended disbelief,
from the jagged fishing-hooks
of fantasy. I am Emperor on the screen,
or in the depths
of grandiose reflections.

I am the equity of quotidian days,
frittered in the back row,
below the rhythmic flicker
of a mechanized projection...

And when the centurions are on their march,
through convoluted Roman streets and alleyways,
they flip golden coins,
that bear upon their face, the glory
of my handsome Roman features—

but only as I doze to sleep.
Track Name: What the Thunder Said
When I leave the theater
(I can only hope soon),
the day has blazed
away, yielding to an
eerily deadened night.
There are no
cars around the suburbs,
and the streetlights blink
a single, fuzzy color.
At that hour, it's often
very cold. Too cold to
smoke one more cigarette
after work, by the dumpster.

What insignificance!
When the stars are out,
they follow me to the car—
The entire galaxy is behind me...
How could I justify my clawing,
in the midst of the grand, flickering
ancients— And my unheard squeaking!

Still, the night is newly born
(if I ignore the straining of
my sleepy, blushing eyes).
And indeed, there is time
then, to interrupt your typing,
with wild schemes,
or smoky, cold-footed evenings
on my porch. I will recite my stories—
And you have heard them all, Dear.

You will still laugh, and you will
tease me, in a language I do not know.
Your words will be like an aria,
a Devi's song— so sweet to me, so
smooth in her tones and music—
But of course, I still do not
comprehend their meaning...
Sing me Habenera,
in your devil speak tonight!

A year of dark affairs. My insignificance...
I watched you sprout, from
the empty soil of my grim garden,
counted the hours at your side, beneath
heavy winter precipitation.
How? I can not fathom this fate—
Your quiet arrival to my
home last winter, like a cat entering
a cracked doorway.

How could you ever know,
what lies beneath my hypnotized gaze—
what frantic, grateful fervor,
for I am not alone!
I know you from the ages!
Ursa Minor, I suppose, still
wanders the heart of paradise—
its deepest forests, where life is rich.

I have heard, the cosmic thunder speaking, From the acidic fringes of the dusk,
When psychedelic highs are peaking Over half-full cans and pizza crusts—
But let us go now, it's time.
The theater's closed, let us go now, Dear...
through uncertain, half-deserted streets.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.