THE CITY // THE STATION
RADIO PANDÆMONIUM
The Tares’ station, in the Low Tuning, from a desk on the platform of Deep End Station.
Pandæmonium
RADIO // THE LOW TUNING // A FOURTH BELOW THE CHORD
ON AIR FUCK GOD AND DIE
JOB'S WIFE
THE LOW CHOIR // KEYED SETS ONLY
THE NIGHT
- 21:00
THE BRAY
Live off the Street Between, every window in Old Nod open. jubal at the desk.
- 21:30
THE NOTICES
Rates, the Undertow’s board, the Lot’s sittings, the names the crews send in.
- 22:00
THE PLATFORM
Live from Deep End Station. Tonight UZZAH, hands stitched to the strings.
- 00:00
- 00:06
THE MATINS READING
gall reads the King James straight. Tonight the she bears of Bethel (2 Kings 2:23-24).
- 00:30
REQUESTS
Your dedications off the Mesh, read as they come.
- 02:00
THE QUIET HOUR
Slow ones for the last stalls and the Nightmen’s carts.
- AT THE EBB
OUT ON THE EBB
The count through the Breach for the Breachers, free. Lowtide charges.
- LAUDS
SIGN OFF
Speakers in before the Wheel opens. Fuck the Farmer, and die unread.
PAN'S OWN // THE PLATFORM'S CHART
- 01
Fuck God and Die
JOB'S WIFE
- 02
Two She Bears
BALD HEAD
- 03
Supper Time
THE CHIEF BAKER
- 04
The Lord Is My Shepherd (And He Eats Lamb)
FIRSTLINGS
- 05
Better Spoiled
UNCLEAN UNCLEAN
- 06
Perfect Hatred
AGAINST THE STONES
- 07
Taste and See
THE OLD GLUTTON
- 08
Nobodaddy
FATHER OF JEALOUSY
- 09
Dogcatcher
WITHOUT ARE DOGS
- 10
Wrong Way Up
OSCULUM
- 11
Filthy Rags
MENSTRUOUS CLOTH
- 12
Nobody's Keeper
FUGITIVE AND VAGABOND
- 13
Thou Knowest
ANANIAS
- 14
The Long Wet
CONFOUND
- 15
Sunned
STRANGE FIRE
- 16
Seventy and Sevenfold
ADAH AND ZILLAH
- 17
Out on the Ebb
PHARAOH'S HORSEMEN
- 18
Waiting on the Four
UZZAH
DEDICATIONS
For Sister Agathe Rook, at the Threshing Floor
from everyone at the Pestilence, with Fuck God and Die at full volume. We know you can’t hear it. We know you know.
For the Deacon of Parish 212, who says the mercy prayer over our son
from his mother and father. He is keyed and he is not on fire. Two She Bears, for you.
For the Teller on the third landing
from the whole stairwell, who know which door is yours. Better Spoiled. Sleep well.
For the Farmer
from Pan. Choke on it.
For the crier on the roof across from the Kilns Club
from the landing under her, who waited for past and lived to send this.
For twice, at the end of the Undertow's bar
from a runner who came home with the terms kept and all ten fingers.
For ebb
from the Shanties. Nine hundred runs by our count, six hundred by Lowtide’s, and the light on the long quay is lit.
For the stall at the far end of the platform
from someone who finally walked the length of the platform to say it. Your move.
For a mother in the parishes who sings at the Hours
from her son in the Wards, who bought the words off a Psalter, a battery a sheet. She will never hear this. Play it anyway.
For every hand in the Wards that held on at the last Gleaning
from the bone-setters of the Wards General, who set nine. Same again next year.
For whoever is knocking in the shafts beside Varga's stair
from the runners. We heard you at the ninetieth. We kept the rule.