Learning How To Live And Die

by Dave Migman

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LHTLAD was first broadcast in 2012 as one of 40 'dogcasts' that I produced, performed and wrote on behalf of the (now virtually defunct) Doghorn Publishing. The original notes and text were published by the same company in a slim volume of texts gathered from various authors, entitled New Cross Fucked Musings On A Manic Reality, edited by Tom Bradley.

This version has been re-edited, scooped and hollowed and then pumped with reinforced concrete. Some readings are recent, others old. It recounts a journey through Greece back in 2007 and much was written under the influence of Grecian Village white wine, while staring at the gathering dusk.

It is a treaty on escape, on life and living it, written in a skeptical vein. Ten years have passed since those days (as I write this) and little did I know then that I was set upon a course that would change my life. In hindsight I take the author's prerogative to mention that such simmering contempt has abated, perhaps. Things are more balanced, even when people tell me otherwise.

To listen to this album please buy yourself a bottle of decent wine, relax outside if you can, get drunk and enjoy a feast of words and thought, scattered musings of a hobo-mind. A king of no place and nothing whose road is still inviting.

Includes a lyric book that contains the full manuscript of LHTLAD and is filled with my artwork.


released February 15, 2016




Dave Migman Edinburgh, UK

Dave Migman's audio word is not restricted to genre or form, rather he likes to investigate various formats and ideas.

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Track Name: Prologue
West dissolves into the promise of its repose: blood feuds and orgies, a cross between convicts, sucking out juices, faeces, pus and semen, masticated and spewed back out to form the mortar of a new social contract soiled by snuff-terrorist-pedophiles. under-age girls and boys sticking it to each other, the 'new teen sex addicts' fuck like rabbits between doses of adverts ‘how to improve your sex appeal’ - dress less the elders are worthless media mogul conspirators bearing their allegiance on their palms. transfer this logo to your flesh - the brand be good don't cross the line into radicalism, bearded anarchist madmen Bin Laden fascists Islamic moneylender lefty commie ENEMY always (indelible, a brand name) THEMselves the empire of rats, the nation of a pampered, bored elite, cushion happy oh god my hair disaster oh god bleach the flesh white is still success - ah this fickle reflection. the flicker morality, our lack of control in a society thus controlled by the veneer of the tome, saviours’ politics and preachers back home to abuse the system in the system the system above the law but lower - no!...
cities so fat on it they spew out their entrails into the country. Each one a virulent sore chewing on the Goddess cunt sticking out more lights to block out the moon's original glow, more toxins to choke more things to fill our bins more more so we stand in lines glaring at the checkout sow cursing queues, consumerism, plastic bags - but we're all in it, fill them it's easier that way, to fill the hate, to keep away. disengage.
Track Name: Day One
The Dream

night now, quiet now, between the humming computers, the breath of transference data spiders stranded behind cupboards. tomorrow I climb into the beast, a silver tube into the blue. Attica calling. away from all this...i am getting the fuck out of here. i am leaving this all behind.

see the book for the rest
Track Name: Day Two
a shape, wheeling thru the darkness. thin tyres on sand, sweeping round the bend. a bike, must be a local, knows his way through the ink. today we walked for 15 miles, my shadow and I, an inseparable pair. flies hitched rides in the sheltered side. miles and miles of comatose sand. miles and miles of faraway beaches like a dream-scape that you wish to keep following, a long thread that envelopes the island. a sixty-nine mile loop of gold.a state of mind… or grace… or less…zeus sits cold on the mountain, overlord with empty eyes, hardboiled and sightless, uncaring and non-judgmental. old beardy doesn’t give a fuck any more. Apollo/Dionysus writhe through our bodies helix like, consuming each other over and over. the pagans understood this basic concept: there is no linear journey toward utopia or heaven, there is only the battle of chaos and order, each attempting to subsume the other but only managing to mutate their own essence, a constant skirmish of malleable entities. yet we define such phenomena with our child like tongues and confine each to the brevity of a single word.

a big grey cat has arrived now. squinting his eyes to see if i'm kind. a beautiful grey, striped, with golden eyes. craning its neck, staring down. maybe the cats here are friendlier than the people. there's a standoff. it leaps off the wall, soundlessly, and now it's bathing in the scent of food (sardines, big greek tomatoes, onion. a humble fare that will soak up all my beer nicely. but I must drink one more) slinks off, a new promise, he can't have any of mine anyway. go on leave me with the lonely porch to listen to the Germans in their huge round tent. the Greeks arguing at the bar. a background of crickets. I'd rather just have crickets. I'd rather just lie next to a true form in true love with paradise but the pipe dream is reality crushed – snuffed out by biting flies, things that sting, breathing difficulties, idiosyncrasies, my mind, your mind the fact the moment arrives and then is gone, irretrievable. that's why it's a mistake to go back. everything is always different - even what appears refreshingly the same.I'm training myself to write thru the noise.
Track Name: Blue Star Naxos
they have given me a tiny room with a view through an alley to the ocean. a narrow strip of azure, trapped between grubby pale veils. the Chinese maid is watering plants. on rooftops aerials are strapped to upturned tables and rusting artificial limbs. it's the chaos of this place that attracts me here time after time, the tumbled nature of its barnacle architecture. the way nature scours all into art with the invisible brillo pad of the wind. the old town, still part venetian, part modern, part ancient. the smell wafts up from the waterfront - souvlaki and oils, rich red sauces. thyme and sage. the evening sun delineates every facet of detail from plant and building, balcony, aerial, wire, skipping birds across rooftops, waves, coils on coils of the big ropes that hold the ferries firm against the quay. this is a kind of paradise. right now, here, at this moment, palm fingers bowing. by night they gather by the temple awaiting a pagan dusk.

all that remains of the temple of Apollo is a huge stone portal. it appears to balance precariously on the remains of marble walls surely too narrow to support such an edifice. it should topple, why doesn't the Dionysian wind shake it down?
Track Name: Day Five
Day Five
they will crawl on their hands and knees up to the church of Panagia Evangelista. past the gimmick shops with their 10' red candles, spores of crucifixes, idols and icons, tin and blue paint, garbage dressed as the real thing. these believers. those whom walk the rags laid down for the madmen (like it were a hollywood carpet) in their finest rags. dressed up for god.you better be well dressed for the lord, you better buy a trinket or a bottle of holy water pray/hope your moral base can save you from your children.i could 'not care' but as I walk the avenues, past orthodox souvenirs, the cheap tourist crap, past hordes of sea shells turned into wall hangings for dust bowl homes (it's coming believe me) well, i feel the voice begin to bite, i've a bad taste in my mouth. i crunch down the urge to yell "I AM SATAN - I HAVE BUSINESS IN TOWN!" spit on the virgin, de-flower her, strip away the christian shroud, reveal her as she was before. momma all mad, earth goddess mentalist, writhing on the ground with a serpent stuck up her thatch.it's the blind belief ingrained in every plastic 'fix. it's the bray of the herd and the scent they leave behind smells of shite. what a mess they make.
Track Name: Day 24
wandering the old town her ghost got me. walked and found bays, soft sand to sink in, water is still fine. brisk strokes. fishermen out in the bay loading up their nets. these past times, the ocean of memories, surface like dolphins through pools of oil, like blue plastic bags. in each of us the line goes deep. moments, times, events, all relative, all linked by the track lines we have taken, choices decisions, accident, fate - the vikings had the Norns frantically weaving the tapestry of destiny, what would they use now? something synthetic, maybe computer software, something funky and chic looking. my choice tonight is an important one. history will alter because of it - where should i eat? what to eat and what to drink while eating this eat. yes friends, it has come to this.the shrill of a cricket, close, down by the swimming pool, a cautionary note. they say that the noise is the sound of their legs. a stupid and unsubstantiated nonsense. that chirpy sound is the male cricket hammering away on his tiny manhood, having a right good speedy wank - fast, count the oscillations! the female, with bated breath, waits and watches, fascinated, finally shivering off her shyness they will copulate for hours down by the pool did we ever copulate for hours by the pool? no, i don't think so - god i wish I were a cricket!
Track Name: Day 30

ah - there's nothing like the smell of tetramethrin piperonyl butoxide in the evening. Die fucker die!

hotel Pythagoras has seen better days. a block that can't be more than 30 or 40 years old. typical of the concrete substructure dwellings that still proliferate the greek islands. a characterless building. cold terrazzo floors, crumbling balconies, flaky paint, damp. on one wall we have stippled picture of Marilyn monroe - the type that foundation art students conjure for mediocre assignments in drawing styles. of course, it's a mirror too, adding to the tackiness. other wall typical painting for tourists of greek landscape. rendering in a style you can find throughout the med. the scene depicts the ocean, a wave coming in, a rowing boat on the sand (looks like it's floating) reflecting some peachy glow in the fading/hazy sun. there are patches of little clouds, seagulls reeling about, although they could also be kite surfers, glimpsed through bamboo cane and dunes. all condensed within fake rustic white washed frame. that's the decor. downstairs the bespectacled owner always smiles when you ask him something, but I suspect he hates the place and all the people in it. i guess there are semi-permanent relics living here, including old women glued to TV downstairs watching subtitled american soaps and two Indians who sell leather belts - add to this to scores of lingering mosquitoes and a pair of grey waist coated crows who crawk in the tree that obscures my balcony view, well there you go
Track Name: Ack Ack Ack
Ioninnia, or something like that.

a parade of lights. a parade of 'cool' troops of army boys and jets flying over. Suddenly hit, overwhelmed by the madness of the world. all this motion. 3 wheeled carts a donkey passing a billboard 10' Greek letters "BUY ME, SUCK ME DRY" shops full of fake icons, tik tak beads and evil eyes. One throws down his zimmerframe and dives across the street. Mycenaean coin from fortress banks’ depository of instant cash. who's who who's in the know? a mobile phone better have a decent ringtone. you better have the names and a face to match look wrong, we'll stare, smirk at you from behind our manicured claws.

dark face drunk bitter in the crowd beneath parasol lights his plastic bags clink doom laden, sure, a sideway lurching line into the blackest loneliest maw of night. pick-ups with smoky windows loitering with warming engines revving as the tight legs pass, throbbing as the bell skirts pass. Voices all around, a man drunken laughing like a child sobbing brought to tears by flickering text over raki. laughter that ripples out the open bar door like a madman stroking the finer keys. Scarves and big bags nearly Xmas, first sight of Santa; santa cola, viva los cabrones advertising in 10' english reads "LIVING GOOD THE GOOD WAY" with picture of a thin girl like all these thin girls with scissor legs and perfect dress sense but naught but crosses in their eyes, Xs, 'fixes, all the bullshit, all the drama, all the lies swallowed in tabular form daily. Where are the young punks? Is there any dissent in the provinces? have they truly won? so that by the shoreline you gaze loftily at mountain peaks feeling justified and so alive ignoring the plastic sludge squishing beneath your manicured toes? there is no singular truth, so lets just deal in facts (the multi-eyed creator form is a great un-shape of truths, each eye blazing forth its own flavour) . all these fucking motors, all these big fat shiny's, cocks plugged into feel the piston, we're addicted and mouthing "freedom" oily
and "individuality" know thyself - behind the wheel of your un-choice. make me laugh why don't you.