You spoke with rubber lungs
And in foreign tongues
To that other mother that we had used
In southern squalls last June
But to the same tune
I'm spitting silver spoons
And hoping that bitter twist comes soon
My sleeves are wet
From washing and re-washing my hands
Until the skin is soft
And red
And the wool upon my jumper's felting
Who's that man's face looking at me from the mirror?
Affecting an effacing grin
With eyes like rust-stained concrete poolsides
But hollow inside
Like still-born, burst-vein, salt-sea, neap tides
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
You keep your top pocket stocked with cigarettes
Like a nicotine corsage made up of pretty little gold florettes
I read your past in the carcinogens
In unburnt carbon and filter flower-stems
Despite its themes of isolation and loneliness, Caroline White's latest batch of folk-pop confessionals is an LP brimming with confidence. Bandcamp New & Notable Aug 7, 2019
The Australian folk-pop singer tackles deconstruction, her Christian childhood, and sexuality on her infectious sophomore album. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 14, 2023