Rafter - Sex Death Cassette

Rafter is one dude (with talented friends), he made most of this on a four track cassette recorder, and it is a really solid release. Little pop pieces mixed in with long noisy tracks, it makes for a really great listen. I'm just posting one song, but I suggest you go out and buy it (or try to find the whole thing otherwise). It's out on Asthmatic Kitty Records, whose most popular artist is Sufjan Stevens, and you can hear that influence buried here under layers of Panda Bear, The Microphones, and Sondre Lerche.
Rafter - Candy Sprinkles

hey guys
keith and i were talking about possibly posting some music here on the branches site. I think sharing what we're listening to is a good idea, but im not sure whether it would be more appropriate on another site, or mixed in with the writing.
what do you guys think? let me know!

laudanum in xanadu

Bob walks out in the woods everyday this time of year. He's got nothing better to do than to take his bottle and set his trap. Insistent on the catch, he pulls the metal pieces apart and places it on the ground. Bob climbs up a tree and waits.
its a bit too late for fox, and plus, everytime they come near he scares them away.
The trap wouldnt work anyway. its hinges are far too loose to hold onto anything for very long.
Bob takes a pull from the bottle and tries to forget about that. Instead, he thinks about all the love letters not written to him.

When you take the time to think of good memories

When you take the time to think of good memories
you can separate your self- from consciousness
and you may find new memories
left behind by the waves of others, like kelp washed up on the shore
during low tide.

Today I am wearing clean clothes
and even on the bus
over the diesel smell I can breathe and take in the perfumed fabric softener,
it makes my nose twitch.
And I really must wonder
how a mix of chemicals
can smell natural
even on the fingers after the waxy residue is left behind.

When I scratch my face, the smell comes back
and I must remember to pick the laundry up
from the dryer. It has surely been an hour.
And beneath that realization,
I remember my friends have gone to pick up grass,
I must not drink all of their wine,
and beneath that memory I think that more must be purchased.

More memory more wine forgets;
I see names written all over the walls
in an illegible scrawl,
the writer will return to this place eventually
and remember the night he wrote his name in gold pen
over another in black pen,
even if he no longer knows
who wrote whose name first.

Hibernate

across from the discotheque-discourse
cigarette smoke serene, spills out
the corner of her mouth, an elegant
circus of buffoons marching
the sidewalk, dancing to
wine-bottle music, a little emptier
each note, cheeks a little rosier
the autumn trees had burned off
vibrant green ecstacy,
waiting to settle down and die
amidst the snowdrift,
the sillhouettes, their fingers stretched
yearning towards the sky or
the glow of the streetlights.
sidewalk ceramic tables
the wine bottle is empty and
the parade has passed by,
you go quiet, walk home against
a distant discotheque bass beat, a headache
the first snowfall. In silence
the last drag of smoke
slips from her lips as her sillhouette fades
past the streetlight and there is
nothing to say anymore, and
at home your quilts are cold
and your bed feels empty.