1. |
Age of Onset
04:10
|
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Fuzzed pixel haze. White noise malaise.
A wifi modem and a swollen pupil glaze.
Fried synapses on fantasy. A crusty
t-shirt and a clean search history.
Trade my eyes for TV screens
looping scenes from half remembered
dreams. I’ll sleep in late and look for peace
through cut up straws and torn receipts.
‘Till I can’t feel my brain
for fuse blown hands
and pinprick feet.
Is this my pulse or someone else’s echoing?
Is this near or far away?
Just bolt my bones to time and space
and make your name illuminate
the touch screen glass that keeps me awake.
I’m alone and need something
to put against my nerve endings.
(Does your heart beat steady?)
I went to breathe and got the shakes,
coughed up wires onto the sheets.
Scratched the screen to see your name.
A blue disease in 1080p.
|
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2. |
Halo
05:37
|
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Reach for the chord burning holes in your sheets.
Leave all the lights off and turn on your read receipts.
Wide pupils shrink at the battery’s death.
It’s hard to sleep when you can feel in your chest.
But they’ve got well drinks
to keep that hollow pumping at ease.
While we measure what we believe
in half grams and bummed cigarettes.
I finger keys and grind down my teeth.
Cause everyone’s got work in the morning.
Avert your eyes and walk on by.
Like everything’s alright.
Like I don’t check my pulse in hope to find
a steady rhythm that means I’m fine.
Like it’s not still within me to pull out all my guts
and get off on your sympathy.
Or soon, when everyone has gone home,
to say your name in the dark. You'll check
your phone, hoping for some name,
and all that shows up is three in the morning.
But I still believe that this is better than sleep:
The message later that you’re coming by.
The bruised blue hand prints healing above your thighs.
I’ll trace their lines as if they were mine.
Love grows within the space where our lies coincide.
|
||||
3. |
Body Horror
04:47
|
|||
My eyes are open but I think
that somehow I’m still asleep.
I need something just to keep
my face from numbing
when I breathe. Cause I can’t
move, sit up, or speak with dead
weight legs and welded teeth.
Paralyzed by what’s inside
the fevered dendrites of my mind.
Tied to a box spring, cauterized
while walls close in and shadows
rise.There’s this thing I need to say
that my jawline won’t let me.
So the thought just plays and plays
and I’m afraid of what it means:
Though our neurons look the same
what flows inside keeps us estranged
and though I’m picking up my feet
I’m not sure if what I see
is memory or coma dream.
I saw the doorknob eat the key.
I’m not sure but I think
there might be something wrong with me.
They cast our heads in the same shape
then filled them up
with something strange.
So for every body’s brain
there’s a locked room with no key
and for every dead eyed face
a feeling without a name.
I wanna show you what’s behind
but I’m afraid to pull the blinds.
I’ve got black mold on my jeans.
I think my lungs are full of teeth.
I’m eating yellow pills to ease
this lethal heart rate’s quickening.
The ceiling bloats to then recede.
What’s it like on the other side
of what keeps me wondering
if I can trust the things I’ve seen
or if pulling up the blinds
means looking out into nothing?
Open up the door and see
what it means to say to be.
Open up the door and see.
Echo back if you can hear me.
I’ve got black mold on my jeans.
My lungs are full of cavities.
I’m pounding on the door to see
If locks or skulls mean anything.
|
||||
4. |
Ghost
04:37
|
|||
I'm in love with a ghost that never was alive.
I only can see her from time to time and when
I can't sleep at night. I've been feeling alone
for quite some time. There's a mouth forming
words in the mirror but it's not mine.
And every moment's the same,
yet I'm still running away. Nursing
delusion while I drift through the days
instead of being where I am.
Things are moving so slow. I wonder
when I'll feel whole. And where within
all these reflections and screens
can I drop off my soul?
Filter my yellow teeth. Sepia my memory.
Render down what's made of bone
and of meat until it's nothing
like the real thing.
Siphoned identity. Atom split
and particle beamed.
To have a body is to be lonely,
but in there you might see me.
A ghost and I are going out tonight
to float through downtown bars
and burned out halogen light.
In the mirror, I look to see
her staring back,
and she looks just like me.
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