1. |
Nuclear Swan
03:50
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…and now I’m sleeping with silverfish
as you whittle your own crucifix
and syphon my dreams like stolen gas
from a parked car in a fuel station—
dead as a desert that you
promised water and stale bread.
You leper, you leech;
those aren’t thorns around your head—that’s just a halo that you made yourself, fucker!
Phonographed words you’d “never say,”
swearing needles bent beyond repair
swearing blackjack’s on the table,
but jokers aren’t wild and that’s all you have.
Yet flashbulbs make you cum
and your knees get so very weak
when you hear your own name
while you are worshipping the radio.
You know my name as “something something”
some little person on your tongue,
sloshed in saliva
and erasers.
You hold your torches so close to your wrists
and want to set the world on fire;
now your mirrors are catching flames,
and that glass had mentioned to everyone
that you’re a fucking sell-out poser
scaring off punk rockers and other scum
like a brainless scarecrow.
Flashbulbs still make you cum
like when you hear your name
Plastered all over the radio
you gladly sodomize.
You know my name as “something something”
some little person on your tongue,
sloshed in saliva
and erasers.
You hold your torches so close to your wrists
and want to set the world on fire;
now your mirrors are catching flames.
And I didn’t know
that side B
was such
Purgatory,
and now you
are some nuclear swan
crowning me an ugly duckling
in your very own poisoned pond.
[All the records, all the lectures that you gave me
were just pitchforks stuck in your ass.
You’re just a bore that “the boar” was too good for]
You want to set the world on fire
now your mirrors are catching flames.
You want to set the world on fire
now your mirrors are catching flames.
They’re catching flames.
They’re catching flames.
They’re catching flames.
They’re catching flames.
1, 2, 3, 4, who’s punk,
What’s the fucking score?!
You’ve got
“Bloody Hands”©
because your art
is not breathing anymore.
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2. |
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Mornings I would read Revolver,
folding out the sponsored bands.
I'd figure I was never gonna
get the type of shit they had:
their gear deals, their tour bus, the money for their tired songs.
So I just played guitar for free,
and thought that my taste was kind of off.
Plasti-dipped artists
hardcased in their harness
attached at the gut to the wall.
I know I’m a sellout
in most other ways,
but at least i pretend I’m still me.
Then after like 10 years
of bitching about the same
shit, and realizing my woes were just redundant riffs:
the same notes and same words just over and over….
for nothing to no one with nothing to make them mine.
Plasti-dipped artists
hardcased in their harness
attached at the gut to the wall.
I know I’m a sellout
in most other ways
but at least i pretend I’m still me.
Fuck, buy me out.
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3. |
"...I Should Have Said."
05:14
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Everything I should have said
could fill the empty
spaces of a photo album
with ink blots
where everything I see is dying
or dripping off the pages,
like memories of friendships
put through guillotines
when I wake up with anvils
sitting on my chest
since their hands weren’t there
to shove the weights down to the floor
so I could breath again,
breathe again:
God damn, I wish I could breath again.
I just don't want to be in it again
no matter how temporary.
Never thought I’d dream of floating
downstream on Burnside riverbed,
the way bathwater
covered my eyes,
my lungs, at 15.
Never thought I would have my own wings
clipped by my own scissors
to get away from the sun,
away from the light,
away from things that made me tangible.
Life would be so much kinder
if I was an atheist saving my voice
from screaming at the sky,
“Am I doing this right? Am I doing this right?
God, answer me,
am I doing this right?”
I just don't want to be in it again
no matter how temporary.
This is paralysis:
knowing I don’t have it in me
to hang myself.
Never learned how to handle a rope
with such shitty hands (such shitty hands)
that only know how to push away--
strangle nostalgia cadavers--
let cries for help slip through fingers;
genuine love slip through fingers.
And I know I shouldn’t be thinking like this
with prescription bottles
hung from my bed,
like Jesus Christ at the end of a rosary;
wondering. Wondering
do these pills work,
or do they taste like monochrome?
Cuz I’ve had my fill,
I’ve had my fill of gray.
I don’t know
how to speak to other people,
but my eyes can dance
with the best of them,
catching strangers
with photographs in my head.
It keeps my lungs expanded;
keeps me writing stories
in the stars,
rearranging the milky way
to look a little more like bears:
Brave and big
and ferocious protectors.
It’s all I have.
It’s all I have.
It’s all I have.
It’s all I have.
None of this feels temporary.
This is adulthood
to stay in on a Saturday night
lying on the carpet,
staring at the ceiling,
with the lights on,
in a cold body
because my boot straps snapped in half,
my lungs too frail and black
to “suck it up.”
I am twenty-fucking-seven,
but I still feel like a child knowing
Chantal’s getting her Master’s in Boston,
Henry just got married,
Kathleen’s having a baby,
and Ahmad bought a fucking house.
I might not be safe inside my head,
and I don’t know how to get out of bed,
but that’s probably everything
I should have said.
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4. |
Geraldo at Large
03:01
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Good morning, dinosaur. Another day break for the books.
It’s a beaut out there, but i prefer my cloistered room
to exacerbate my lack of drive to stay alive.
But its not my fault cause I’m a victim.
Just give me shelter, all i need’s love.
I said I’m a victim, ain’t that enough?
Your just gonna leave me out here? Alone in the cold with my shit?!
Fuck you then, asshole. I hate you!
When i die tonight, it’s your fault.
Cause you’re gone
and i called it
catasroph
then beyond it
Now that we hardly talk, its far more simple to deflect
all the shit you say, and just ignore you when you cry
as your out of cash, and your girlfriend’s fucking sick
of your pused-off face, your misplaced banter.
Just give me shelter, all i need’s love.
I said I’m a victim, ain’t that enough?
Your just gonna leave me out here? Alone in the cold with my shit?!
Fuck you then, asshole. I hate you!
When I die tonight, it’s your fault.
Catasroph
then beyond it
now you’re gone
and i called it
It happened all at once,
you blocked out everyone.
Not friends with all the friends we used to be,
and then the morning came,
another sordid day:
The death of of when you thought that I was cool.
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5. |
Parasomnia
07:07
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Since all we are only etchings left in time
Then can’t the ones we leave
be better then the truth they’d really find
and even now as we progress and reinvent
repackaged thoughts are just repackaged thoughts,
nothings really changed.
Now we’re getting older, but the future,
the future’s become the past
All worked up over nothing (they say),
but that nothing, is somebody’s fucked up life
Friends and family hide in terror, bolting windows,
not from burglars but men in suits
Men who’s kids probably played with your kids,
men you’ve probably shook hands with.
Books are written like they’re tabloids,
making history, a crossect of truth and farce
Young adults creating dialogues, about nothing,
purposely ignoring the twist
Shift in time becomes a schism, causing rupture,
distancing ourselves from things we don’t like
Then we wake up 10 years later, 10 years backwards,
and our kids are worthless pieces of shit.
I am the lost one
I am the walrus
I am the only one left standing here wide eyed, empty mouthed
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
I am the lost one
I am the fool
I am the only one alive here
breathing with a pulse
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
this is a nightmare
This
is
a
nightmare.
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tudors Long Beach, California
P.O.C. fronted Noise Punk from the Los Angeles area. Always lower case the "t."
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