The Marion Flow

by fiffdimension



Turn-of-the-milennium fusion of warm acoustic pop, spoken word and postpunk discord. An almost-acknowledged New Zealand classic, first released in 2001 - of its time yet timeless.

"It's lo-fi, organic and about as eclectic as one could manage. Kind of reminds me of Nick Cave if he had grown up in Timaru. No pretentious American accents or catch phrase choruses, just a bunch of people making music. A little beauty!" - NZ Musician, August/September 2002

"Edwards' music is often a sculpture rather than a melodic composition. Within this chosen form, amongst all the writings rantings & poetry there's much difficult pleasure to be had for the musically adventurous." - Brent Cardy, Real Groove, July 2002

Buy the download for $5 - includes the second half of the album (eight hidden tracks not available for streaming) along with the original CDR artwork.

Produced by Paul Winstanley, & featuring Chris O'Connor (drums), Chris Palmer (electric guitars), Simon O'Rorke (percussion), the Dadapapa Magickclone Orchestra and more. Recorded at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, 1999, and Thistle Hall, Wellington, 2001.

A companion piece to this album, recorded at the same sessions in 1999, is



released August 8, 2001

Music & lyrics by Dave Edwards
Produced by Paul Winstanley



all rights reserved
Track Name: Seafriends
The ocean a shadow, time slow by the seashore
& the seashore that score the time we know
Watching clouds go by, making them artwork
The still were at war

The lights on the city, the barrenness glowed
& behind me the sea as it ebbed & flowed
Leave the loner alone to go face what he knows
Chained to the flow

Flee little seedlings, hide on the ceiling
Flee little seedlings, the rhythm makes meaning
This is not leap, the tunnel of tilt
The aged miniscule tension sits on a shelf
They drink to his health, they lay down red carpets
They stone all the sinners, his mind has gone numb
The body falls down & it will not obey
The cross on the crown, the hill is a weakness
60 days buried in a heap before vengeance
A waterfall vision, along for the ride
A grey broken quickness, a knock at the door
We come alone, exit that way
If desire is a kingdom then who sits on the throne?
All I have proven is that no-one is home
Something crawls out of the mouth of a high tree
Luminous pictures are gathered within

Here I am at the sea & I still can't breathe
Nobly fractured I forget how to be
The bullshit clouds of nothing refrain
Chained to the flow


Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar & vocal
Chris Palmer - electric guitars
Paul Winstanley - fretless bass
Chris O'Connor - drums

Wellington, NZ, 2001 - from the album 'The Marion Flow'
tags: experimental acoustic alternative electroacoustic folk new zealand music New Zealand
Track Name: Locked Without March
Shall I water myself down for mass consumption?
Is the message now earnest & clear?
Am I walking on the side of my creation?
Or am I just standing in the rain?
Did the nobleman's bride cause me to go down unlocked so I mocked the sun?
Were the bells not raining on the no man's band sitting proud to the beat of the song?

Send a child's comedy from the overturned slumber to feign at the starry eyed bull
& to knock down all the roads for the wheel of progress to trample on in its spin
'I'm no secretary for the barrel-necked people' I was raging to myself
Seek comfort from friends, inspiration from enemies, in the pantomime you chose

Let abrasion now come, overrun all the shelters, cry an end to your troubles beware
In an effervescent splint for the dreadlocked outlaw, one hand on autumn & shame

Beekeepers dance in digestive shelter

A wordless accusation in the eyes of one another, too jackal-cowed to flip the night
No simple rules in the simpletons' showdown carving annals to win & destroy
Track Name: A Wedding
Obscurity rides the record river,
and hastefulness bound in wastefulness time
the cloak & dagger chains climb on the remains
of extreme tattered sword

A wedding behind me, the glitter on grey, the shininess new in progression. With cellulite withered & tied down a warning & barons in drag who laugh in the morning the sky torn in colours a parachute falling, need for birds to fly though all calm & still, the fishing boats rise with everything new. Warm & light, a softened display & the still of the day shows the tears in my eyes at all that I say to be given away & we come not to stay in the heart of the day with the storm clouds away & the freaks on display with cigarette overload makeup on walls & her shoes hard on grey - give it away, 'enough' I do say...

Wedding photos stay in pictures as the clouds run on by a life made so happy, & me with back turned, writing a page, down on the beach, alone once again. Placid & tranquil will come early morning; peace in the air, not melancholy despair (at least I hope) - & then come children in screaming for parking space & privileges & battering hands ran at this beat & into the street with a fireplace gleaming in snow & in sleet, violence crash down & envelop the town, rioting in the dark beyond sight of law - but all that yet to come.

A wedding behind me & I am uninvited, with thankfulness & gifts floating by in the breeze, blown like the leaves. Wedding cake almonds & sugar-coated memories lie dust in the covers, suburbia sleeps. A desire for life to be fruitcake.

Freckles & fat & age & decay with a cigarette warning tanning the hide... but now 'smile for the camera, this moment forever'. Enough that I die.


Dave Edwards - vocal, electric guitar, piano innards, canvas sheet

Recorded by Paul Winstanley at Thistle Hall, Wellington, New Zealand, August 2001
Track Name: Banana Wizard
A fleet-footed moment gives itself up to grief
I fall into a puddle with you underneath
& now I'm living underwater & living overfed
Coffee & smoke coming out of my head

I see you silhouetted in the door
I see your reflection in the floor
I see your shadow on the wall
But I don't see you at all

It's OK, this is the day
Keep on moving in that sunny kind of way
Could it be I'm getting high?

No-one's in charge & no-one knows what to do
They don't want your soul; money will do
& it's a hook-staggered world filled full of regrets
As the government's putting you deeper in debt

I saw the frown on the clown as he was taken down
Moving the show to the pictures all around
& it's a hook-staggered world which just might
Only be a bile phantom in the alcoholic night

It's OK, this is the day
Keep on moving in that sunny kind of way
Could it be I'm getting high?


Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar & vocal
Paul Winstanley - fretless bass & recording engineer
Steve Duffels - drums

Recorded June 1999 at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, New Zealand
Track Name: On a Bus
...& here we are once again friends, on the odium express busline, a curious coincidence out the window & fishy wet banana smells within. They are sent to punish me, their smiling smacking rings of inwardly consuming wetness & having breakfast & all wetly slopping into toilet stops & trains, the dead brain blown like sand onto glass with nothing there to contain a song.

'Arise, all ye who cry in light' yells the driver, & off they go, walking tall into a new sun, still crying here, & windows & towers & bells now for all to see.

Inside non-walls & planks lay the spiders in scheming, not wait for their tunnels, & still gently slapping he cries to their eyes. Smiling in glass now growing tiresome, & useless deceiving that all follows night.

Hello in sweet carpets led by lies & denial. Friends o my friends this becomes all the same: sourness, sweetness & to what for the bells go & for whom the seats flow... Readiness? No.

A poem is a song contained in pictures; witchcraft & heathens now beg for my stomach... Looking on the crowd from a great height cracked into tables & black rhythms of glass into which lightning rolls. Passions are soiled, the rhythms are boiled, it grows & it grows, it grows & it grows.

Shut down the crowd, take chains off the door, open trapdoor, & in they all slide, down & forgotten, a weight off my mind. A black frost; fine feathers flow; we all fall down. We all fall down.


Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar & vocals
Paul Winstanley - field recordings, turntable & sound engineer

Recorded June 1999 at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, New Zealand
Track Name: Chairs to Tie the Revolution Down
I woke up sober it was useless deceiving
that midnight walls of the room were not breathing,
cancelled eyes & cancelled mind,
bored with things that I've never tried

Chairs to tie the revolution down
as the tidal throbbing becomes the only sound
forced in upon the silent seas
listening to the pretty pleas

Climbing up infinity's winding stair,
blood drying in your hair -
a million miles down the barrel of a gun
words sneak through a slave to the pen

The corpulence of leisure
seeps through the house & cannot be measured
& I'll be wandering through, filthy with rain,
& the hole in my pocket lets out a mile of change

Growing & crawling into massive mediocrity, the stars upon your side

I'd rain destruction on the hit parade
I'd choreograph death & make them afraid
but everything fades, like it always must,
leaving only hunger & lust in the dust

Surrounded by prostitutes with neon makeup,
stealing from a beggar's cup
I cannot hold them off with a pocket full of rhymes
it's just like a schoolboy writing lines

& when the hall of opposites finish wearing each other down
what else is left but the tidal throbbing sound?
You're a dancer out of control but you will survive
& be burning well past midnight, it's OK to be alive

But there are those who will teach you to loathe & fear the sun
& chairs to tie the revolution down


Dave Edwards - electric guitar & vocal

Recorded by Paul Winstanley at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, New Zealand, June 1999
Track Name: The Marion Flow
I sit in this tower of tongues & bells & move move move to the groove, or so that I'm reckoned & then I am beckoned back back to these shoes nigh marion blues & so to the seashore our body now go & tale shall flow & power ye know.

So under the tower my face nigh on water & shoes that are dough to the marion flow, & need to correct a sudden deflect & fine to the seashore can bring thee self-knowledge, but laugh shall I laugh & make my ears go to the marion flow. Distance contracted, stars that explode.

Our body now sober lie down at the seashore & seashore that score the time that we know. Our body now sore that to lie on the floor to be seen to that go to the marion flow.

A passion of treasure to my body lies pleasure to be watched on the Earth of patterns we go, & the comfort southwest is to be seen to be blessed. Longer that than you think to be seen to be pink in hard self-regard into cotton of night, & cotton this gift that to is be kissed & to cotton this Earth that to be at the first, that to be at the first is to be at the cursed; distance contracted, stars that explode.

A thing is regained that is nowly defamed & be seen to that go, to the marion flow, a thing that does cometh to pierce the sea summit. Nervousness knows that to be on ye toes & voices that might all mutter that high fall, or to leave & not serve or lie in the Earth & the stars are now plain, & voices that come onto him all that come. Yea take in that wake that to be self that take or abandon the wake into silence it take & him that is spying be him that is crying & hence shall it west into heaven that blessed for to lie without knowledge & be proud & flee north.

See not that I deformed & hear that I be forth into copious power that shall grumble an hour. Hallowed it be to hear the self reckoned, to see will be beckoned, upon paragraph & tower & weave in a bower, & to see all that spite now to be in the light. See not that I deformed all that came before & that pry in that chance who to aid not that branch. Hunger & knowledge of all that came before to fill up my head with emptiness dread & the loneliness crowd, so insufferably loud are the loneliness crowd.

Locked without march. The rhythm that yawns not to be of the dawn, I write for that reason, to buckle the season, my storehouse a treasure of pirates at leisure with shoes that lie drying on priest without buying, and to be but a yawn in the streets that are born(e) & that sprung from the sea to with all that I be, but to fight for no groan in the top without loan, asleep on the throne that is slow in denial of friendships to smile of all that we know, in the carrion flow.

To go forth alone into million at home and design in presignment, cold windy assignment, sings all that we know to the marion flow & hope be denial of all that we smile, I give all that I know to the marion flow.

Danger & leisure are to be what we treasure, & to see the comfort southwest be amazingly guessed, to hope without trial of all is denial, the pen it grows dry to the self underly, the hope that I treasure the ribbons of leisure that lie without worth in the dustiness Earth.

I will finish this page to dirty my age & to lie without spite is to see out the night. The truth it is worth more than loneliness birth where to be in a fright is to be in the night. I will always ignore the one I adore & am always at war with myself to be poor.

The end, round the bend, come today another friend. Nothing shall be there to tell what I said or die in a bed & the loneliness crowd grows very loud. Back to the sea, it waits for me, a negative on water like any other matter. All is said & all is done, the flow continues, the song is sung. Myself I ignore.


Dave Edwards - electric guitars, vocal
Paul Winstanley - pitch-shifted cymbal

Recorded by Paul Winstanley at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, New Zealand, June 1999
Track Name: Open the Dogs
with a left right flash & the dog in the pan
smacking my face with a cartoon hand
i went into town, town fell down
tall guy in the front starts bouncing around

going to hell, in series & in parallel
the passion slashing blind can see
the emperor has an itchy nose
grovelling here & then flip down their toes
nose is nailed to the floor
lockdown people are odd & funny
& they bury all their clothes
love tasting like earwax
rib-toothed canine raving in storms
powerline sculptures open the dogs
like a fire with wings

swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
he's going my way, he's going down
swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
our silhouettes in dreams

crystal palace soldiers in a plastic crusade
like fish in a bottle, don't be afraid
it's a conspiracy of noise
rock & roll enema, shit on the dancefloor
smacked on the forehead with a silver spoon
hands that grasp the wind & bellow down walls
we stand on the river, they take it away
it's not my fault that i eat my own salt
the town is changing & i'll be king
expansive crudity revolves around stars
the place is overgrown with millionaires
vandalised trees go pillory grey

swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
he's going my way, he's going down
swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
our silhouettes in dreams

solid & pallid ye cry through the seasons
& then you start flaming red
& then it's all over, you'll be just like them
the dragon can be slain with gentle humour
but the good guys have gone away
& the fun goes out of the day
no conclusion, just more confusion
the hours were no good so time resigns
& the tall guy in the front is jumping up & down

swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
he's going my way, he's going down
swinging down in the silhouette kind of light
our silhouettes in dreams


Recorded June 1999 at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, NZ

Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar, harmonica, vocal
Daryl Hannon - drum foliage
Paul Winstanley - fretless bass guitar & sound engineer
Track Name: A Visit to the Beehive
the silly little bald man does not exist but for a poem
it all is regained
& concrete glares, cellphone smiling faces to own
(protest marches ignored)
& as the red car goes by i think 'middle finger'
& old men are shaking hands
but there is no-one inside


Dave Edwards - acoustic guitar & vocal
Simon O'Rorke - drums

Recorded August 2001 at Thistle Hall, Wellington, NZ
Recording engineered by Paul Winstanley
Track Name: Phoenix Road
roll down Phoenix Road with a firebox full of fears
choking down hard whisky, counting out the years
manic xenophobe sitting in the boot
with a shotgun & a blanket looking so cute
adulation, flagellation, all the same to me
floating face down in a rabid sea
blue factory walkers getting cut down
by a sawdust vampire heading into town

his brain is barbed wire & his hands are rusty steel
crunching down headstones for a last meal
no more laughter, no more pain
flying into brick walls again & again
gunners on the tower & guards on the ground
smack back the black flag without a sound
he didn't know what he was saying & he didn't know why
running into walls to apologise

brain at a dead end, ruined skeleton
arse to the stormclouds, come on in
consciousness folds & rolls on the floor
& still he keeps on wanting more
tripping on every stone in the river in the drought
doesn't know what the song's about
the voice is flat & dull like someone drunk
who cuts off his head & puts it in the trunk

mock hell by going there, death offers nothing

a passionate disease amongst the falling trees


Recorded June 1999 at the TFC Lounge, New Plymouth, NZ

Dave Edwards - electric guitar, harmonica, vocal
Paul Winstanley - fretless bass guitar & sound engineer
Track Name: Lucifer Directing Traffic (at 3am)
A frozen tableaux: guns fanned in a spray fired off into my face. A masochistic sodomy for the unknown music lover with a spade tied out into excursion. Drums & garden rakes & typewriters, with a flick of the nose & a free ball of tax.

It numbs the heart, the beating & drones all melting like crazy. Up there, O up there, with diamond cloud sculptures of heroes & gods alone in repose. The canyon repentance repent for its break. Looking down on mouth in half share, the eyes gazing out from black upon grey, a grey flashing terror alone in the room, far flung from the womb.

Dizziness chilled with collapsing pink tunnel down, exiting diagonally the party guests & the presenter. An eye in the corner, an ape looking out into the numb... & bent down in angles the jetfighter pilot thrown away for the day, civilians scurry down among the rubble for the city once formed in clay & in stone.

I'm a secret that nobody knows. A glance on one up that struggles & gleams, a shyness retort it's all my fault, lips & half-lips that flow down to her hips.

An ape humps a whisper, all fat & denied, shines from the skull a metal plate for a scalp. Greenhouse conservatory trees blown away in the wind, he whispers in spin.

Naughty pony, crashed down among blooming heather like that, you ought to be ashamed. The horse lying there on its back with a smile, a high fall, high heels in high school, a '70s disco. Pop cultural references the buried detritus of literature. Scholarly habits in bookshelves, academic gowns gone wild in the classroom. Gasping & grieving the rest were all leaving. Eyes wide. Journalistic approach.

He's Satan asleep, & he begs out a warning to you. Robot phallus extended, a burial map thrown out on the side. The spaceship fly down inside metal tunnel dodging laser fire. I am careful of my feet. Wind blowing me into the drumkit. Metal clang into clang with bounce-ringing sound, true silver to lack.

A hero: Kurt Cobain on the stereo but I don't mean him. The humour of streotypes. A hero portrayed in swamp metal tabloids or oiled in bronze light with muscles - a cry, a silver shape rolling in tinfoil sucked through a straw. He is sad, he cries... he liked it. A mouth full of mandarin oranges spitting out juice into fiction. Brown book pages, worms, earth, a hole, journey to the centre of the Earth.

A door. A corridor. Light at the end. A man's figure; a black silhouette. The fall of civilisation. A cut; that always hurts. A blankness in a chair. Let's go out for a walk. A sewerage pipe down to the sea.

The house explodes. Junky wino just trained yesterday in demolition techniques, deny the antiques, all crash down in rubble, a car provided. Alone in grass grey. No respect, I say no respect, I say no respect these days.

She's calm & crouched down over a pale lit table in moonlight, not sleeping in conference. Milk & honey flowed in the vale of the fountains, a clown he crashed down. Drowning in concrete he begged for a warning & none came. An injury bound in salt, grievance, zigzagging up & down palpitations to wait for us all - a fossil fused in walls not bearing this progress but lying alone too sweet for his home.

Nestled down among the forest floor a poisonous twig, to bitterly bite at leg. Stabbed in the ankle - a classical reference, Trojan wars you understand. Bronze & marble statues of heroes & gods with spears in hand - a bitter frost of arrows hung down o'er our heads, with go-go dancers interrupting the legends for light entertainment. A commercial break; mythology sponsored.

This leads us to mummies in pyramids. A plaster cast man alone in his bleeding... & over it all the ghouls. Not very nice; they live in toilets & have sharp teeth. A fishbowl full of eyes. People have their noses cut off & live. It was a common punishment in medieval Russia. Their heads begin to whirl & blur - a two-dimensional study in black & white bound to be misinterpreted.

Red apple falling. Harvest & wine. Bells of machinery clang under a beautiful sunset.

Trotsky got an icepick in his forehead; I get one through the scalp at the top of my skull, like a vicious bumblebee but worse.
Track Name: Tony Was Here (but they put him on ice)
caught between the thief & his guile
& the receptionist's smile
a wire fence of sound
pounds around with its chains unbound
I leave you like a bad joke
as the sun rises at midnight's stroke
burning the light of the night in your eye
as the bleak cars sail by

she bleeds like lightning & will never think twice
taking all chances, throwing the dice
I'm flickering in the walls for want of advice
Tony was here, but they put him on ice

My monkey is flying
lying in the sighing crying drying island
standing in your rain
the shame is the same again & again
when i was the clown
i saw down frowns looking around
found a disease to infect from neglect
as chess pieces began to defect

she bleeds like lightning & will never think twice
taking all chances, throwing the dice
I'm flickering in the walls for want of advice
Tony was here, but they put him on ice

& now we're up to date
but I still cannot articulate
that if looks could kills
yours'd only give me a thrill

she bleeds like lightning & will never think twice
taking all chances, throwing the dice
I'm flickering in the walls for want of advice
Tony was here, but they put him on ice


Dave Edwards - electric guitar, vocal
Chris O'Connor - drums
Paul Winstanley - analogue synth & recording engineer

Recorded at Thistle Hall, Wellington, NZ, August 2001
Track Name: Monkeys with Typewriters
Dave Edwards - electric guitar
Chris Palmer - electric guitar
Simon O'Rorke - percussion

Recorded at O'Rorke Towers, Wellington, NZ, October 2000
Track Name: Cafes in Conversation
Dave Edwards - electric guitar & vocal
Paul Winstanley - fretless bass & recording engineer
Chris O'Connor - drums

Recorded at Thistle Hall, Wellington, NZ, 2001

Well the coconut tree it fall to perfection leaving all of us awake into this splendid castle with a grove metal share. Bury the fortune tellers, hello to the trees. Take out the garbage & add salt.

Cafes in conversation, ambience folly. The coat-tails tied in coffee beans & the bellows in fireplace water & shoes hung out to dry. A crackling a smoke to slow-mounting fortune, the ice to the new is a sprinkling of seeds. The beginning is gone & the going beginning.

Wait collapse in small-mounting fire-tongue, the nothing not new of the past not an echo, moving back wide to refocus identity, a shame & a clank for the down in the dungeon, coffee beans there too, & hitherto canyon that shuffles in back, leaving in focus, consensual guilt.

Hard to tell what illusion defines all her contours when sadness of metal is lost in the canyon to beat tunnel down & refocus the lack of a camera to gleam & escape early warning, oh woe woe I miss all my forests.

Hard to take announcers & put him to bed with sadness a pillow to smother his head. Harder still for saltshaker monuments to praise all the fountains for Spanish guitar-players effusive in company when here sits a wall that evades all questions & company follows or not not at all then.

Too close getting harder, now aware false impressions are blocked off constantly, & marred prostitution a phone call away. Truth-telling harder now this is the end; back again someday. Mumbling back into focus, the light is like glass & the world is its liquid. Solidity wallows & senses are drowning in glass crystal fountains, scotch on the rocks.

A song for his head & this is contemptible with orange marshmallow covers lie down from the ceiling, & roses of chocolate to bury the gloom not the room a full moon; how did you guess?

Forced mysticism & fuzzy perceptions, a mounting of distance, an awareness of warning, speak not at all - & then temperament follows an incense of sky & plant pigmentation, a wariness fall; seasons in households lie late in their bloom. Wakefulness follows a dream dying high.