1. |
||||
|
Girl, youʼre body is composed
of crisp first pages of novels,
but Iʼve always been a sucker for endings.
Our doom, it looms
like the brazen moon showing face while the sun still shines.
My heart is the loaded gun
hanging ominously upon its rack
in the first act of a Chekhov play.
Our doom, it looms
like the brazen moon showing face while the sun still shines.
Ever after, disaster!
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
Maul and meld.
You got to maul to meld.
I’m molting my life’s eras like layers of melting ice caps—
the smothering dander of sighs, wails and mishaps.
Those masochistic mimics of myself adjourn
when self transforms lovelorn to love-sworn.
Our bodies are impeding partitions,
but they’re the only things we’ve got to hold onto.
Maul and meld.
You got to maul to meld.
You’re my blanket at night, or rather my skin;
you sheath me in tender limbs ‘til the cruel sunlight comes in.
“Baby Boy,” you say, “I must go to work.”
“Oh, Baby Girl,” I bay, “this will never work!—
our suckling cells slaves to separation—
we need a spell for touch preservation!”
Our bodies are impeding partitions,
but they’re the only things we’ve got to hold onto.
Maul and meld.
Oh, we’ve got to maul to meld.
I wish we were vagrants asleep in a field—
the sun roasts our bodies and our flesh begins to yield;
returning to dust, enduring our grasp,
our lungs mold together as we share one final gasp;
the cumbrous meat melts to earth as hair just keeps on growing—
we’d be a be a beautiful pile of bones,
cuddling while decomposing.
Our bodies are impeding partitions.
Well, just maybe, self-excavation could lead souls to amalgamation;
‘cause these bodies are impeding partitions.
|
||||
3. |
||||
|
The tide is rising now.
Our toes are sinking in the mud,
and I somehow forgot how water
composes two-thirds of the earth—
that we’ve been landlocked and prosaic
since the bay of our birth.
Pity on you and me. My love,
why are we toiling on through time
despite pre-written history?
If only we could float
among the clouds or ‘cross the waves
and pretend our mortal anchors won’t sink all
that we want to do, to be or know.
But even ancient stones are crumbling,
so how can we hope to hope?
Pity on you and me. My love,
how can I be a better man
when I’m already history?
O, I’d give anything, anything, anything to master
the mystic whir of destiny.
But I’m afraid I’m only the
quintessence of dust.
Kiss me violently,
if only for a moment to forget…
We live and we die in layers of dirt.
We live and we die in absence of mirth.
We live and we die with scruples unkept.
We live and we die; no time to reflect.
We live and we die.
|
||||
4. |
||||
|
The tide is rising now.
Our toes are sinking in the mud,
and I somehow forgot how water
composes two-thirds of the earth—
that we’ve been landlocked and prosaic
since the bay of our birth.
Pity on you and me. My love,
why are we toiling on through time
despite pre-written history?
If only we could float
among the clouds or ‘cross the waves
and pretend our mortal anchors won’t sink all
that we want to do, to be or know.
But even ancient stones are crumbling,
so how can we hope to hope?
Pity on you and me. My love,
how can I be a better man
when I’m already history?
O, I’d give anything, anything, anything to master
the mystic whir of destiny.
But I’m afraid I’m only the
quintessence of dust.
Kiss me violently,
if only for a moment to forget…
We live and we die in layers of dirt.
We live and we die in absence of mirth.
We live and we die with scruples unkept.
We live and we die; no time to reflect.
We live and we die.
|
||||
5. |
||||
|
I cannot be the peg
in the hole of what you think I am or think that I should be.
Strike a match so I can burn down
this misappropriated identity.
Heart on fire,
hopes on fire,
wits and sentiments on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
Face on fire,
loins on fire,
fists and failures on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
I see your creamy skin,
and you see my sad eyes or hear the treble in my laugh.
But it’s a sad mistake to believe
that there’s a definition for you or me.
Heart on fire,
voice on fire,
flesh on fire, beliefs on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
Scars on fire,
clothes on fire,
friends and history on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
I’m not a heart.
I’m not a home.
I’m not a voice.
I’m not my taste in art or music.
I’m not a job.
I’m not my loins.
I’m not my country.
I’m not a personality type.
I’m not my clothes.
You’re not your hair.
I’m not my failures.
You’re not your past.
No, I’m not my ideas.
You’re not your reasons.
I’m not my pain.
You’re not your fears.
Heart on fire,
dreams on fire,
health and potential on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
Fears on fire,
kin on fire,
tongue, biology on fire.
Can’t you see it’s a facade?
|
||||
6. |
||||
|
Metamorphosis:
it’s the process of becoming;
it’s the universal narrative of life.
Skin and hair, friends and fates all shed the same.
And for me, it’s hard to find the will to grow
within this climate of decay.
I repress progress
by idling in fantasies and fears of change.
So just crown me the Prince of Apathy
and let me waste away.
Metamorphosis is just a waste
if it can’t reach its full fruition.
The moth must unfurl its radiant wings,
in order to escape the silken walls
of its self-constructed cell.
I repress progress
by idling in fantasies and fears of change.
So just crown me the Prince of Apathy
and let me waste away.
I stay wrapped in the cocoon
of my apartment, the bars I know,
and bare minimal responsibility.
I wish I could emerge as something more than a failure
in an arrested pupal state.
I know I can’t resist my metamorphosis but, shit,
Mother Nature’s cattle prod can drive a man insane.
I repress progress
by idling in fantasies and fears of change.
So just crown me the Prince of Apathy
and let me waste away.
Let me waste away.
I’m just a waste anyway.
|
||||
7. |
||||
|
I was a baby once,
Innocent and new.
But now I’m used up, so don’t wait up.
I’m headed west to chase the moon.
Brace yourself,
There’s a tempest coming to wipe out all our days,
Even the one where you dodged my lips
And said you were through with me.
Well I guess there’s nothing left for me here
So the endless blanket of night is what I’ll seek.
Go your own way
And try your best to start anew.
I’m headed west
Too keep up with the constant moon.
All gassed up.
Gonna reach the coast
And find a compass and a boat.
Don’t try to track me down
Or apologize.
You had your chance and you tainted me.
The starlit sky and the black horizon
Outshine your moderate majesty.
(Time opens all wounds.)
Go your own way
And try your best to start anew.
I’m headed west
To keep up with the constant moon.
Stand still and things pass too soon.
Hey, babe, you’re the proof
That light and love—they just burn and bruise.
Happy endings are a hoax,
Fond farewells and promises.
So instead of saying our goodbyes,
Let’s just say our Fuck You's.
|
||||
8. |
||||
|
Todd said,
"You're a stubborn animal.
"And I shrugged,
"Yeah, devolution is a bitch."
I used to ooze passion,
but I've spent it all
on New Order songs and Cameron Crowe films
And Nabokov novels.
So don't ask me
to watch the sunrise,
because I've seen the perfect one--
it glowed vermillion, mauve and gold.
Admit it--
life's a boring drag.
We drift between the dusty pasty
and the clouded, bleak unknown.
Everything's been said;
so what am I to say?
I'm just rewording classic anthems
'cause I'm your nostalgic knave.
2001
was the summer of love.
Potential was pervasive;
the days were welcome ones.
And Jack played guitar then,
just like he does today:
"Rocks Tonic" sing-a-longs
in the back yard.
Kevin blew up Black Cats
and Chi Chi died his hair,
while Mike and I smoked
stogies in the pool.
Girlies curled their smiles
like leashes round my neck.
And hope was superfluous,
not an obstacle.
This is a funeral for the best days of my life;
they're buried in the dirt behind me.
They say the past is just the past so let it pass,
but present tense seems so remote.
Everything's been done;
so what am I to do?
I dwell in memory and rewrites'
cause I'm your nostalgic knave.
My present occupation
is just waiting to expire,
half-living a redundant life
amongst all things second-rate.
So where do I go from here?
Where am I going to from here?
Can I endure another 30 years?
|
||||
9. |
||||
|
Todd said,
"You're a stubborn animal.
"And I shrugged,
"Yeah, devolution is a bitch."
I used to ooze passion,
but I've spent it all
on New Order songs and Cameron Crowe films
And Nabokov novels.
So don't ask me
to watch the sunrise,
because I've seen the perfect one--
it glowed vermillion, mauve and gold.
Admit it--
life's a boring drag.
We drift between the dusty pasty
and the clouded, bleak unknown.
Everything's been said;
so what am I to say?
I'm just rewording classic anthems
'cause I'm your nostalgic knave.
2001
was the summer of love.
Potential was pervasive;
the days were welcome ones.
And Jack played guitar then,
just like he does today:
"Rocks Tonic" sing-a-longs
in the back yard.
Kevin blew up Black Cats
and Chi Chi died his hair,
while Mike and I smoked
stogies in the pool.
Girlies curled their smiles
like leashes round my neck.
And hope was superfluous,
not an obstacle.
This is a funeral for the best days of my life;
they're buried in the dirt behind me.
They say the past is just the past so let it pass,
but present tense seems so remote.
Everything's been done;
so what am I to do?
I dwell in memory and rewrites'
cause I'm your nostalgic knave.
My present occupation
is just waiting to expire,
half-living a redundant life
amongst all things second-rate.
So where do I go from here?
Where am I going to from here?
Can I endure another 30 years?
|
||||
10. |
||||
|
Silken dress.
Passionate.
Just say yes.
I’ll make you, I’ll make you…
Seduction.
Destruction.
You’re the one.
I’ll make you, I’ll make you mine.
Desire is the sheriff of my being.
The man hunt’s on and you’re wanted
dead or prostrate.
You can only resist me for so long.
Your horizontal body is the only bounty
that can satisfy my hunger.
I don’t care if it’s heaven- or hell-sent.
Either way, I’m bent on taking you under the covers tonight.
I’ve huffed and I’ve puffed and
you’ve just rebuffed and I’ve had enough.
So it’s my love or your life tonight.
Seduction or destruction
will be our carnal introduction.
It’s my love or your life tonight.
I’ll make you mine.
My body is a crater full of teeth,
starving to consume your essence.
Your soul will be as mine as my bones.
I don’t care if it’s heaven- or hell-sent.
Either way, I’m bent on taking you under the covers tonight.
When I lay you down
you’ll moan and writhe beneath me.
When I lay you down
you’ll search for breath or words.
When I lay you down
you’ll freeze in wide-eyed wonder.
When I lay you down
you’ll pray we had more time.
When I shoot you down
you’ll moan and writhe beneath me.
When I shoot you down
you’ll search for breath or words.
When I shoot you down
you’ll freeze in wide-eyed wonder.
|
||||
11. |
||||
|
Oh, your life
is a tidal wave
and mineʼs a splintering home.
Letʼs go to Miami
and uproot our troubles
with hurricanes...
with hurricanes.
Letʼs go.
Who needs doors
and windows anyway?
You always see through me
like Iʼm naked,
or lacquered in shame. Or
like Iʼm wearing my skin inside-out.
So letʼs go to Miami
and uproot our troubles
with hurricanes...
hurricanes.
Letʼs go to Miami
and uproot our troubles
with hurricanes...
with hurricanes.
Iʼm a Hellraiser.
Momma gave birth to a natural disaster.
Iʼm a cantankerous archangel
bottling defiant souls.
I keep your essence confined
in an air tight Holy Grail.
One of these days
Iʼm going to punch a hole in your chest
and free your blood
from its repetitious route.
My jailbar ribs
keep our hearts from colliding.
Letʼs go
to Miami
and uproot our troubles
with open arteries...
open arteries.
Letʼs go.
Death by collision
is such a cliché.
Instead letʼs drain our futile pain.
|
||||
12. |
HACKSAW (Acoustic Demo)
04:03
|
|||
|
What’s the cure
for futility,
the human condition,
the nonstop need to need?
And why can’t I
define satisfied?
Why’s it always the pursuit of more
that navigates my life?
We all aspire
to the brilliant stars,
But this world is the ball on the chain
weighing down our hearts.
I want to take my foot off with a hack saw.
I’m so tired of drifting afloat
on this brittle raft made of scrap wood
that we call “Hope.”
‘Cause we can't survive
on pacifying, Prozac-laced salt water
when we thirst for fine wine, so…
My body is my cross to bear.
It can't attain desire's reach.
My only chance to catch the stars
is the hack saw.
|
||||
13. |
||||
|
Maul and meld.
You got to maul to meld.
I’m molting my life’s eras like layers of melting ice caps—
the smothering dander of sighs, wails and mishaps.
Those masochistic mimics of myself adjourn
when self transforms lovelorn to love-sworn.
Our bodies are impeding partitions,
but they’re the only things we’ve got to hold onto.
Maul and meld.
You got to maul to meld.
You’re my blanket at night, or rather my skin;
you sheath me in tender limbs ‘til the cruel sunlight comes in.
“Baby Boy,” you say, “I must go to work.”
“Oh, Baby Girl,” I bay, “this will never work!—
our suckling cells slaves to separation—
we need a spell for touch preservation!”
Our bodies are impeding partitions,
but they’re the only things we’ve got to hold onto.
Maul and meld.
Oh, we’ve got to maul to meld.
I wish we were vagrants asleep in a field—
the sun roasts our bodies and our flesh begins to yield;
returning to dust, enduring our grasp,
our lungs mold together as we share one final gasp;
the cumbrous meat melts to earth as hair just keeps on growing—
we’d be a be a beautiful pile of bones,
cuddling while decomposing.
Our bodies are impeding partitions.
Well, just maybe, self-excavation could lead souls to amalgamation;
‘cause these bodies are impeding partitions.
|
||||
14. |
||||
|
Say, girl,
I wanna taste you.
I’ll have a flushed flesh buffet:
epidermal eloquence devoured.
Say, girl,
I want to decay you.
Time for a tooth on meat melee:
meal of skin perfume-sugared or sweat-soured.
Hey! You won’t ever get your siren grasp on me.
Hey! One night of savage love is all I need.
Too long I’ve been a slave
to feminine wiles and romantic fallacy.
Kisses have only earned me hideous scars.
And alluring, lubricated cunts
have merely served as vacuums for my soul.
But no more!
Tonight you look ravishing;
licentious thoughts are washing over me.
For your angelic body, I am starving.
I want to eat you up and spit you out
like a thousand other girls have done to me.
Man inside woman—it’s a tired a cliché.
So reverse the curse; ingest her vitality!
My manic mouth mauling you, it’s almost
like crooked canines consuming the cosmos.
Say, girl!
I wanna taste you
and to decay you.
Say, girl!
Sex bite!
|
||||
15. |
||||
|
Well, thatʼs the question:
to be, or not to be?
Is it noble in the mind
to take arms against a sea of endless troubles
and, by-opposing, end them?
To die.
To Sleep.
To sleep perchance to dream.
To die.
To Sleep.
To sleep perchance to dream.
ʻTil we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.
|
||||
16. |
||||
17. |
||||
18. |
||||
19. |
||||
20. |
||||
21. |
||||
22. |
||||
|
In my beginning is my end.
This is the sound
of faucets left running
and scattered novels half-read.
There's single frames of film spliced in between static:
last looks at the moon,
would-be legendary loves never actualized,
conjoined coronaries cut apart too soon.
A star-crossed birth
guaranteed my doom.
|
||||
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