🪓🐖 T H Ξ Ƒ Λ Я M Ξ Я & T H Ξ $ C Λ Я Ξ C Я Ø W 🐖🪓
They arrived like gossip carried on the wind—
the interlopers from neighboring farms,
their scent a mix of cider and unfamiliar rain,
their laughter stitched from borrowed joy.
They came hungry for work, for purpose,
their eyes wide with that glittering, foolish hope
that the earth might love them as it did before.
And oh, how they worked.
They bent and lifted, plowed and sweated,
their hands like prayer books, worn and honest.
But the Iron Hand watched with eyes of iron—
eyes that saw too much, too clearly.
He could smell the change rising,
could hear the low, erotic hum of the machines
waiting in the barn like restless gods.
Too many hands. Too many mouths.
The future no longer needed flesh.
Beside him stood the Scarecrow,
a figure of devotion and decay,
stitched together from memory and mildew,
his grin cruel in its serenity.
He leaned toward the Iron Hand,
the straw inside him sighing like confession.
“They mean well,” he whispered,
his voice soft as moth wings brushing candlelight.
“But even good intentions sour when left to rot.”
And the Iron Hand, smelling of smoke and sanctity,
replied, “Mercy rusts the plow.”
So it began.
Not as judgment—but as inevitability.
Fences rose higher, the nights grew longer,
and the interlopers were gathered, one by one,
their pleas trailing like ribbons in the wind.
Some cursed, some prayed, some sang old songs
of fields that would never take them back.
The Iron Hand’s grip was cold, absolute;
the Scarecrow’s eyes gleamed with terrible wonder.
Together they worked their harvest—
and one by one, the interlopers fell.
The ground drank deeply that season.
The wheat gleamed gold as gilt confession.
And in the pens, the Boars stirred—
their dreams rank with dread and old pleasures.
They whispered of Piglet,
of how he’d gone to the Scarecrow,
of how the truth had started to bloom like rot.
They prayed the Iron Hand would not remember them,
but prayers have poor roots in blood-fed soil.
The Scarecrow turned,
his grin glistening in the lantern’s glow.
“The field must be cleansed,” he sighed,
and the Iron Hand—calm as frost,
merciful as the blade—nodded once.
Smoke curled into the twilight,
sweet as burnt honey,
and the wheat bowed low, trembling in adoration.
For something vast was stirring—
an age of steel and silence,
a new god built of gears and will.
And before that dawn,
the farm held its breath—
rapt, sinful, divine.
🌹 The machines are coming, and they dream of perfection.
🌑 But perfection always tastes of ash.
An hour beneath the Iron Hand’s reign, where sweat turns to prayer and rhythm becomes law. Robert Hood stokes the fires of order; Moby & Lady Blackbird mourn the fallen interlopers in twilight’s haze. Radio Slave hums like the machines waiting in the barn, and Pig&Dan carve sorrow into the soil until it shines. The Scarecrow sways in time, the Boars whisper in their pens, and the farm—half sanctuary, half sentence—beats on beneath the promise of dawn and steel.
Save Me . . . Skatman 🕯️
Refuge (46:1) . . . Luke Hess 🌾
Go (Hard Mix) . . . Br1002 🚜
A New Beginning . . . Reform (IT) 🌅
dark days (Undercatt Remix) . . . Moby & Lady Blackbird 🖤
Ignite A War . . . Robert Hood 🔥
Tunnel Vision . . . Arthur Robert 🕳️
Rainbows & Other Things . . . Vincenzo 🌈
New Balance . . . Radio Slave ⚖️
Heartbreak (Extended Mix) . . . Pig&Dan 💔
His Spirit All Around . . . Julian Muller 👻
TAKE U HIGHER . . . FLANZÖ 🪶
Unchained . . . Skatman ⛓️
