Cold Skin, brushed bruises.
One whip takes its time.
Scratched leather, pavement dweller.
Bulged eyes, crumbled spine.

Old-fashioned, diecast gridlock.
Pummeled lungs, blood clot fanny.
Moistened strawberry hide.
Crippled tarmac, gasping envy.

Herd. Herd. Herd. Herd.

Tough skin, fractured complexion.
Horn powder, despot leatherette.
Concave voicebox, purulent puss.
Swelling lingua, gastric glands fat.

Attrite tartar, molten tissue.
Sun rays fry shriveled grease.
Scarlet membrane, flaky nuckles.
One man’s anguish, their disease.

Herd. Herd. Herd. Herd.

Cold skin, brushed bruises.
Bent knee takes its time.
Cold skin, brushed bruises.
Cold skin, brushed bruises.


Thoughts on Amanda Palmer’s THERE WILL BE NO INTERMISSION

© 2019 Manuel Baudisch

From its authoritative title to the audacious cover artwork, much about Amanda Palmer’s first full-length album in 7 years (only her third solo record since the Dresden Dolls went on an indefinite hiatus 11 years ago) just screams big theatrics and histrionic crescendos. Which it delivers, mostly, until it doesn‘t.

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