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Black Ops Arcane
Thoughts Without Soul

Thoughts Without Soul is a project that took a lot of work. For a while things looked a little bleak, but perseverance pays. 12 months passed since the previous, release, but a few extra months' work did wonders. This album continues a creative journey started in the previous album and goes on into some new territory.


The following poem, Thoughts Without Soul, is read in two parts by the artist on two tracks. These are Souls in Absentia and Desert Wind. These two tracks take an avant-garde approach to dance music with some complex percussion and amelodic or barely-melodic musical parts. They are programmatic pieces and attempt to depict in musical language, arid, desolate places inhabited only worthless,  soulless ones and the anger we direct at these hollow, hypocritical men.

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The poem was written by the artist in about 10 minutes, followed by roughly 15 minutes' editing at various times. This was after many years' rumination on TS Eliot's The Hollow Men. and several years of learning to ad-lib on music radio. It was literally possible for the words to flow straight out to articulate some well developed inner subjectivities.

The rest of the album varies between, dark and brooding trance with the punch and grit of hard rock, and some other styles. Sounds of the 70's and 80's become obvious here and there. Some brighter, melodic pieces are sewn in to make it nice for the kiddies.

Blurry Lights

Thoughts without soul

Eyes without sight

Men of honour absent

The natives of a dry expanse

Knowing only as one

To whom nothing is known

These are the has-beens

These are the dead-within.


A homestead built on dreams

Dreams of Death Valley

In night-time awakenings

Quench the thirst with sand

Sing the serenade

Sing to hollow trees

Sing to solid stone

And silence – a friend.


This is the rock-land

A land of sheep

This is the grave-land

Where fools stumble about

The cowards stand

They make no point

And scarecrows flap

shirts in stinking breeze.


“It is I,” says the buzzard

“I have come to point you home"

So slight the response

So pathetic are the men

Whose souls have no thought

With hearts of charcoal

And brains of chalk

“We have our home,” comes the reply.

Liquid Bubbles
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