Handwriting II: Humors

by The Cradle

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vol II of the handwriting series


1 masturbation 0-2:30

2 newing swell 2:31-5:20

3 riding bus 5:21-7:30

4 beginners 7:31-10:27

5 luca , 10:28-14:12

6 horse walks soon after birth 14:13-15:16

7 clot shake 15:17-19:39

8 back gettin out 19:40-21:49

9 the humors of reproduction 21:50-25:12

made at 1278 prospect place spring 2015


released June 15, 2015

a few of the sounds heard in between stuff is some palberta that was already on the tape from before




The Cradle Brooklyn, New York

i'm paco. the cradle is my music. currently live in brooklyn ny.

for booking/whatever: pkcathcart@yahoo.com or
646 220 3328

i also engineer for other people/bands. hit me up for that analog natural jank.
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Track Name: humors
why is memory involved in masturbation?
where is the appreciation for an unlit room
in a country that i've never visited?

the bus never comes until it does
and by then it's been too late for a while at least
the places we had to be no longer exist
the cage that would have saved us in its soft bars
is the torso of a dead body

the implements flick over the dead flesh in time with the recital
of the doctors thoughts . the image of the body inert beneath
the clamps and knives in the back row
of the bus yells DANCE and fires at your feet
you dance and the taste of nervous sweat that's pooled at
your mouth's corners mixes with the pleasure
of morbid repetition and
a nostalgia for the weightlessness of childhood .

when the bus comes the new swell out of the future and the new buses
prepare their non-journey to never coming

when i come i am usually alone
the rottenfruit fuck drains out of the instant and when the optic's clean
I am not more than a sense of movement
why do the brain/gods of body point towards density and not toward
the air outside the window that cultivates velocity and breath

why don't they point toward skating rinks or any desert of the world ?

why is catharsis a reflex of my life?
why is memory involved in masturbation?
on the bus i sit in the back and feel my stomach for answers
after years of searching a dead clot finally reveals itself
to my shame hungry fingers. as the bus rumbles towards,
I tell myself that my body's betrayal will be like the shattering
of a tyrannical love when i come to understand it.

i don't realize when the bus arrives at my stop
but get out anyway. the reasons for this
have not yet descended to my brain.
i smoke something and step into
the unlit room high as fuck with no motive [misquote from unknown]
my touch has become innocuous and devastating. now i am with you .
i read the words written into the contours of the room
in the dream i'll never have
and perform the ritual with delicate force until your body sings
the notes shake the clot in my stomach along its aural fault line
until the cancer explodes like a wine glass.

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