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letra de honey (feat. peter baker) - nolan potter's nightmare band

tales from the library of the occult – honey

june 1967
dope smoke bellowed from the farina’s rolled down windows as the car tore around another bend
headlights swept the hedgerows, sending wildlife into panicked flight
she sang along with the blaring radio, the last of the oversized joints she’d rolled for the journey at the corner of her mouth
she’d driven this route more times than she’d cared to remember, and knew its every twist and turn
no surprises here, or, so she thought
a flame fl!ckered into existence along the dark lane ahead
not the cozy glow of campfire; there had been an accident

flames, l!cking out from beneath the rover p6’s ruined bonnet climbed the trunk that had stopped it dead
the driver had met the elm less than a second after the bumper
the remains of the head, and the shoulders of its owners expensive tailored suit were already aflame when she pulled up alongside
ugh, heavy…
something on the passenger side caught her eye
movement glimpsed through the haze
k!lling her engine, she heard groans amid crackling flames
the door was locked, or jammed
she found a half-brick sized rock on the roadside, and shattered its glass
she dragged the girl from the wreckage and carried her to the farina

emma awoke in screaming terror, as the car head around a bend
to her confusion, she saw a woman at the wheel beside her
“you are safe”, the driver said softly
then, “what’s your name?”
emma told her
“they call me honey”, she replied, offering a smouldering inch of joint
dazedly, emma took a long drag, spluttering dank smoke
“sorry to lay it on you like this emma, but your dad didn’t make it”
honey had guessed the girl to be in her early teens; emma was 22
once you got passed a certain age everyone else either looked like kids or old wrecks, didn’t they?
the dead man was not her father
she was his secretary
the pair had been on their way to a hotel for the weekend
“hah, cliché, babe!” honey chuckled, tossing the roach-end from her window
emma laughed too: maybe it was shock, maybe the dope; either way, laughter turned to sobs soon enough
everything was settled over a late breakfast of sweet tea and honeyed toast
the boss’ wife thought he was away on business
when the burned out p6 was discovered, the police would rightly assume that he’d had an accident on route
emma’s parents thought she was staying with a friend for the weekend
honey could be that friend
it had been a mistake to get involved with her boss
but emma hadn’t been in love with him
there was no need to make things worse, no need to drag her name through the mud
it was no one’s fault, accidents happened every day
all things considered, it was better this way
so, she’d stay
just for the weekend
then, honey could drive her home

barefoot in the blazing afternoon, emma roamed the overgrown grounds of the georgian mansion honey called home
bees buzzed busily about the pink-white flowers, which seemed to bloom everywhere on waxy-leaved bushes
the place had been in the family for generations, honey told her
but she didn’t spend much time here these days
she was part of the whole swinging london scene emma had only read about in the music papers, or heard about on the radio
emma wore a borrowed brightly patterned caftan as she wandered on
she came to an orchard, the ground a mulch of rotted apples
fat, stripped bodies crawled drunkenly about them
overripe fruit squished between her toes as she walked
a gigantic, honey-combed wild hive, alive with humming things, hung from one of the trees
dripping red-tinged sweetness as it swung lazily in the summer breeze
emma caught a few drops in wonder, and sucked at her finger
“careful babe, that’s heavy stuff!”
honey had appeared in a cloud of dope-smoke
“you’ve met mother then, hah” she laughed, looking up at the dripping hive
“poor old girl”
emma didn’t understand
“she couldn’t hack it when dad traded her in, always had a flare for the dramatic. still, hanging’s not how i’d choose to go”
emma gagged and spat
“oh i doubt there’s much of her left in there”, honey cooed, placing a reassuring hand on emma’s shoulder
“it’s been years and years and years now. she loved the bees though, so i thought it was kinda groovy, you know? better than that whole ‘ashes to ashes’ trip”
honey had planted the rhododendron bushes which now crowed her family estate
it was from their pollen that the bees made the heavy stuff
“mad honey”, some called it
people had been tripping out on it for literally thousands of years
wasn’t that wild?
that was how she made her living down in london these days
psychedelics were in, baby!
but she was the only one who could supply this special, all-natural high
that was how she got her name, of course
personally, she hardly ever ate the stuff
her own special honey came from the glass house
the glass house was a rusted victorian construction half as big again as the main body of the house
the kind of thing emma had seen in pictures of the great exhibition, and kew garden
its countless windows fogged with the respiration of thousands of flowering plants, their leaves straining wetly against the glass
inside lived a colony of bees whose first queen, honey said, had reigned during her grandfather’s time
the special honey they made was kept in a riveted metal tank, which made emma think of an oversized old-fashioned travelling trunk
glowing amber sweetened oozed in slow motion, as honey drew it from the squeaking tap at the side of the tank
as soon as emma tasted it, she knew she would never want to eat anything else ever again
days turned into weeks without emma noticing or caring
sunshine and flowers and sweet, sweet nectar that was her life now
she was at one with nature
she helped herself to fat drops of mad honey which dripped from the many wild hives as she wandered the grounds hour after hour, day after day
it was indeed, heavy stuff
the glass house honey was her real sustenance, though
she ate nothing but
ate so much that her skin shun yellow, and her sweat became sticky and sweet
honey came and went
emma was never sure whether she was along, or whether the other might be at her elbow, joint in-hand, to continue a conversation that had begun a week before
the place was a maze, a mystery, the geography of which emma never seemed able to fully comprehend
maybe it was the mad honey?
more than once, she found herself buzzing around the big, empty house like a trapped insect, unable to find her way out into the sunshine
one morning – or maybe it was an evening, she stood, staring at a faded portrait that hung above a long-dead fireplace
honey smiled down at her
only, it couldn’t be honey
wiping dust from the tarnished frame with a sticky paw, emma read the words “mistress sylvia arden, 1899”
honey’s mother?
she felt her flesh crawl as her thoughts turned to the dripping corpse hive in the orchard
bad vibes; she didn’t need that
she wandered on

emma turned the squeaking tap again, and again still, nothing came forth
the glass house tap had run dry
how long had it been now, since she’d tasted its perfect sweetness?
where was honey?
out in the garden, emma gorged herself on the red, mad honey like never before
not a single bee threatened to sting, even as she delved hungrily into their hives
honey found her in the garden
she had carried the sticky, sickly sweet girl into the glass house
and laid her on the bed of buzzing flowers
the hives in their were positively oozing now, and she set about her harvest
honey talked as she worked, knowing emma could hear every word
too much reanotoxin, the thing which made mad honey trippy, could slow your heart right down
put you in a kind of hibernation, like bees in the winter

great glass vessels of liquid gold were filled and arranged at the sleeping beauty’s side
age-rusted bolts that secured the tanks lid were undone
one by one, bees crawled about emma’s face, unrolling long tongues to suck sweetness from her unblinking eyes
mellification, something the ancients used to practice
something the same historians who wrote about mad honey said down in their records, long before jesus walked the earth
youth, the ever-deared
emma couldn’t hear what honey said next, her speech m-ffled and distorted inside the tank
there was a squelching, sucking sound
honey laid a glistening, shrunken skeleton thing, gently on the flowers beside emma
bees swarmed hungrily upon it
sweetness began to glug into the tank as one by one, honey emptied the huge vessels to refill it
she’d been a girl from greenwood
a few miles southeast of ardenhouse, barely in her teens, honey’s father had become infatuated
that was what had done for poor old mother
honey; sylvia, as she’d been back then, had seen to it that there was no happy ever after for the pairing, however
at first the idea had been to preserve the body, that was what mellification was supposed to do
when her father returned, his young lover vanished
she had walked into the orchard, show him what he had done, then when he was broken, she’d shown him what she had done
show him his dead-eyed sweetheart, now sweeter than ever
but mr. arden never returned
whether it was curiosity, boredom, or madness that led to her first taste, she couldn’t say
the ancients wrote that honey from a mellified body was supposed to have miraculous, even magical properties
soon, she knew it was true
age did not wither her, she remained forever the young mistress of ardenhouse
well, not quite forever
you see recently, she’d begun to notice some changes; uncool changes
she’d been thinking that it was time to replenish her supply, begun to wonder how she would do it
and then one night, she’d come across a burning car on a deserted country lane
emma’s vision faded slowly from glowing amber through the stygian black
as her living dead form sank, languorously
the rusted bolts grasped into place, one by one
days turned to weeks, turned to months, without her noticing or caring
the only sound, the intermittent squeaking of a rusted tap
echoing sluggishly through the viscous sweetness which enveloped all

- nolan potters nightmare band

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