phlegm - one night stands with out of tune instruments in a room with blue wallpaper

by phlegm

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02:59
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00:50
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01:12
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00:52
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03:18
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05:30
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02:28

credits

released March 5, 2002

all lyrics & vocals by Brad Hamers
production by Slomoshun
cover art by Jennifer Griffo

tags

license

all rights reserved
Track Name: one night stands
one night stands

i woke up earlier than usual today
head swollen like pregnant flies caught in a spider web
and i think i’m just an insect on the sidewalk
of this giant city block
where the sun comes up like a dysfunctional elevator
riding over the hills like a blind man on his bike
i need a seeing eye dog to help me out of bed
without tripping over these slippers that no one’s worn in 4 years
the bedroom has a different texture this early in the morning
i enjoy sitting at my window
i’ve been watching all these people move like broken car parts
black ants in a rat maze
gathering crumbs to bring home a full loaf of bread
the streets bump into each other
like this club’s been open all night
people coming in
people going out
i haven’t been to a funeral in a while
and i think its because i can’t stand the way my father sits
when there’s death in hand shakes and hello hugs
he cries like he’s singing
and i’d buy his album if he ever came out with one
he makes music with his tears
like i do
like rain in a tin can
constant tapping
constant tapping
like a radiator shivers
someone put a jacket on this house
and me feed the static
take my brain out and show it to me
kids in the shape of pills
i wish i had wings
that worked in water, i’d float my way home
what is this place
sick of myself
throwing up in front of mirrors
i’m waiting for the carpet cleaner to put its foot down
because i’m not cleaning this mess
what is this place
my images now all have curfews
hibernating rituals where they leave me in the dark
fuck the beat, no drums, no drums
skin me and make a song
for them, all of them to dance to
like cocaine lines with clogs on
center of dance floors in strobe
spin and grind every hour away
every hour that came before this one
we only exist at night
with forgetful minds
and only the sound of this second clicking matters
i’m in line
single file
like we are
folders with labels
organized like socks
obligated to mates
and will always fit in a drawer
FUCK THIS
i don’t want to
look at the rebel, let’s exploit him
tag his cheek to keep track of him
bar coded and i need a sku check over here
sku check
somebody wants to purchase the X on the map
clean out his wallet with a broom stick
made of fallen trees and nappy angel hair
i need it spotless
and that means you to
out
now
the house looks better without you in it anyways
you’re crayon scribble on these antique walls
and i’m a loner that needs companionship
so last night i gave birth to mind through my mouth
a child’s brain
detached
in a shopping cart
up and down isles
down and up
back and forth
jittery wheels
forth and back
don’t listen to my music
or whatever it is
i don’t want you to look like this
its not fun
no
no fun
i wear a gas mask and a hard hat to sleep
stay on your own yellow brick mission
there’s sky falling from the …
clouds peeling themselves from the sky
the sun takes a bath
and little pieces of confetti are thrown
all over the black rug
until light vacuums its family room
and opens its eye
what is this place
what
please
tell me i’m sick
i seem to be comfortable in clothes that don’t fit
i like playing games with no endings or overs
i keep cheating on myself
having affairs with attractive thoughts in persuasive clothing
running around naked with strangers
and netting them like spiders
a thought stuck on fly paper and
she’s the one that woke me up early this morning
she makes me hate my music
she tells me there’s answers to ever question
which i think is a trick
yeah she’s a trick
homeless
without a magician to push her back up his sleeve
she makes me try to express myself
like i’m some sort of puppet to my brain
but i can’t leave, i’m whipped
an addict to the way she thinks
i can see her ideas move through the traffic like water
she’s a light bulb plugged into a wall outlet
my outlet out of my self
i fuck her like a virgin, an unpeeled orange
she orgasms ink like a broken well
and my sheets are covered from head to footer
we smoke cigarettes in the dark together
and talk about mirrors and wheat fields and piano keys
we cuddle all night like two fetuses tied up by an umbilical cord
then i leave her for another early morning
to stare out windows
and find a different partner
a different idea in a mini skirt
one that fits my high expectations
Track Name: out of tune instruments
out of tune instruments
part A –

how many people don’t feel like going home tonight
how many questions will you die with in your pockets
how many answers do think will ever help you out
how many mornings would you rather stay in bed

this life tastes like cardboard
and i’m boxed in
this life tastes like cardboard
and i’m boxed in

how many people don’t feel like going home tonight
how many questions will you die with in your pockets
how many answers do think will ever help you out
how many mornings would you rather stay in bed

this life tastes like cardboard
and i’m boxed in
this life tastes like cardboard
and i’m boxed in
these walls try to talk to me
but i don’t listen
this world is a pool
and i’m drowning


part B –

a tarnished man – sitting
a salt and pepper shaker – still
a pile of dusty clothing
on a sidewalk
next to a paper cup
with its palm out
he plays an instrument
sings to the city air like
rain pellets hit the gutter
then the concrete
then gets muffled by $90 sneakers
his fingers around me like belts
worn leather – wrinkled
pressing notes
leaving finger prints in sounds –
music – like a women crying in her car
plucking me – hollow sounds
like a little drummer boy pounding the roof – with his fists
my head

like mallets on glass tables
cymbals
like a car crashes – bulbs popping
dinner plates on linoleum
we move through the world like music
brushing shoulders
songs with lips –
dress shoes on tile floors
nervous finger tips on wood desks
painted nails on computer keys
its all a song
we’re symphonies without music stands
memorizing conversations
and pretending to be ourselves

a guitar shaped women
scratching her stomach – gently
a hole in her center
and metal knobs on her face
one note at a time
a violin string flossing a tooth in a trumpet’s mouth
a saxophone off the hook
a stuttering flute trying to relate to a cymbal
i fall asleep to the sound of my pen playing the paper
my brain sheds scales like a lizard on the xylophone
skipping records
long days
the speaker is an open pore
sweating
twisted jazz notes that read themselves out loud
the saxophone is throwing up in the sink
and i’m mesmerized by the sound of its dry-heaving
the piano is leaving suicide notes behind
and i whistle along with them
waiting for the viola to break through my car windows
and pull me from the wheel
the cymbal crashes
and so do i
i bleed vinyl
black drool
worn out record
needle on track mark

its like a piano and cello making love to each other on top of a bass drum in my attic
combing my hair with a bow and singing with a broken reed
her mind’s one giant cd deck
that won’t stay in the dash board
this life tastes like cardboard
and i’m boxed in
bandaged with packing tape
and clothed in shipping labels
the moon plays the night and we all dance our way home from work
there’s an entire orchestra in the car next to me
and she keeps taking me out of the music
i just want to fuck the cello
until its got me strung out on its strings
hanging damp like washed clothes whispering at the sun
the music melts
this life tastes like chocolate
and i’m boxed in
if music had a brain, i’d pick it like scab on a flower petal
i’m an out of tune instrument
silence
Track Name: a room with blue wallpaper
a room with blue wallpaper

i’m tying bed sheets around my ankles and skydiving from my dreams
velcroing my feet together and lacing up my souls
parachute thoughts of bungee cord jumping from my existence
and landing somewhere outside of these walls
i’m an apple that didn’t fall from the tree
i jumped and landed on my feet then ran straight out of the forest
there’s worms at my core and the fisherman are out circling the orchard
looking for second servings
give me a plate full of inspiration and a cup full of gasoline
i’ll need enough to drive my motivation to the next town
before i can refill the tank of my broken down machine
my rusty purpose with 2 broken axels riding sideways on its hinges
if life was in the palm of my hands i’d probably start cracking my knuckles
and drop it
i’m a pale piece of loose leaf never ripped from the notebook i was nurtured in
an ocean that’s been taken by its own waves, lungs filled with sea salt
i’ll need a dictionary to help me spell out help
and a beach full of sand with a large enough opening to make myself visible to all the rescue ladders telling me i can climb
but in a world full of ceilings the only stars i see have glue on their backs and
i’m down to my last straw
so i sip on my days moderately and spend my nights on overpriced dreams
my mind’s a wallet with thousands of pictures and nothing ever worth putting words to
tomorrow has been in that dressing room for 4 hours trying on the same cheap clothes it wore all day yesterday
and i think i’m going to die one day but fuck it i’ll deny it until it leaves my laces untied
all these topics are quiet libraries with overdue discussions
and these whispering trend setters need to stop tying up my phone lines
i push pinned my heart to the wall
and i nailed my brain to my notebook
i have trouble keeping my thoughts in line
this life goes far beyond the margins
and all these ideas are just blown out bulbs
staple my tongue to my ears and watch my pupils drop out of their classes
i’ve been force fed with crooked spoons and now
i’m an ironic silverware collector
selling myself to junkies who drool over my anguish
lined up to watch me crack my head open on microphones and bleed all over my new pants
a bunch of swaying light posts with dim eyes anxious to see the stage open up and the turntables rise
fiends for a dose of my depression with their sleeves rolled up
asking me to pass the needle
so if i could drown my own voice, i’d do it in a lake where no one could see me
because i think i like being alone
i’m a tightly packaged dress shirt always hiding in the folds
on holidays i throw my head in a grab bag
because i want some else to wear it
fuck this deflating beach ball we’ve all decided to establish residency on
i hope someone kicks the ball out of bounds and beyond the stadium boundaries
a round bellied planet and were all waiting for the fat lady to sing her solo
so we can have an excuse to say goodbye to these blue walls

i ride a dismantled bike that’s bolted to the ground
and happiness keeps putting his fingers in the spokes
and i wish these walls never spoke
my life is a pair of pants and i’m the pocket with a hole
digging myself out with a shovel and hopes of striking oil
so i can loosen up these wheels, and i’d push the pedals all night
to a place where a seamstress would work overtime
on patching up my life

i scotch taped my mind to the bed post and sewed my soul to the night stand
this place goes nowhere beyond the wallpaper
and all these patterns are just overused rorshock designs
if this room was a women
i’d call her a wishing well and throw myself inside her
like a new penny
but her coven is far from warm bath water
rather a funnel of crushed ice
and i’m falling like hail from the horizons
like bad dreams shaken from morning hair
i’m paging the rooster 911
telling him to quickly bring out the sun
so i can better see the sidewalk
my body’s an egg carton with cupped hands around my fragile wine glass
my perspective’s half empty
and i’ve got bright dreamy eyes
like flashlights with imaginations
my pillow has a trap door that i fall into after an hour
of tallying my breaths so i’ll never change my pillow case
and we’re just stick figures in the hands of amateur architects spending nights
over drawing boards making floor plans for my tomorrows
but the sunset is pink and i’m planning a picnic for
me and my inhibitions, i carry food for thought in
my basket case mind
and eat my words every time i leave my zipper undone
there’s blood in my phlegm
and cracks in my walls
that remind me of veins, and if i could find the heart in this place
i’d put its neck in a blanket and hang it from the ceiling light
i need shades for my perspectives
and a window sill for my flower pot concepts
talking to myself is like performing for hundreds of people
i’m just a mic stand being stared at on stage
everything i say is just feedback because i’m the only one swallowing my bland convictions
like a fly, i’m attracted to the spotlight
i’m hanging from the walls in my fly zapper bedroom that has this less than meditative hum to it: a high pitch tossing curveballs to my mind
and i’m the batter without a helmet out running the bases
over and over because i can’t find my way home
put my brain in a folder and take me to class
take me out of my tupperware container and
safety pin me to the clouds
leave me out to dry
put a real-estate sign outside my notebook
and prostitute my thoughts to the public
i need some gratification and a pack of cigarettes to fill my lungs with some life
decapitate my loneliness and carry my carcass from the bedroom
leave the door open a crack because we all know that
sooner than later i’ll definitely be back
so where’s my damn bike at
get me the hell out of here
i need air in my tires and a bucket full of tears
so i can drown my frowns
every time the sun decides to go down
Track Name: her
her

she listens to the static on the radio
sitting straight up in a chair pulling
each tangled ball of insecurity off her pants
black attracts lint
and gloom attracts attention, unwanted
she lives between walls
framed by peeling wallpaper and stained ceiling tiles
a painting never acknowledged good enough by the artist to be shown
the forgotten child at a public festival by its parents you watched cry in the corner
the milk that’s denied notice and goes sour
she plays solitaire with a deck missing cards
the clock snaps its fingers with repetition
and claps its hands on the hour
every hour
the lamp reminds her of winter
and she thinks of an album she used to play in her car
the music was a door and if it had to be described it was wood, the soft looking wood that was crafted by a perfectionist that probably bit his nails and owned a camera, maybe smoked cigarettes and lived in a one bedroom apartment
she broke the antenna on purpose one night after cooking dinner for herself
but the radio is still friendly
past time back yards are kept clean cut in small picture frames around the room
faded photos she chooses to remember
the ones that come sugar coated
without bad after tastes
easy to swallow
hard to deny
wrapped decently in faked smiles and crooked teeth
she’s a jogger that never leaves her room
keeps everyone across the map
puts on make up at 10:30 at night and watches the mirror
she needs the mirror like it needs her
like her fingers need an occupation, a purpose
and if it wasn’t pulling lint off her appearance
it would probably be sewing table cloths or overcoats
she flips through books, never reading the middle chapters, only the endings
eats three meals a day
washes her clothes
brushes her teeth
will die at age 67
and tells her children that this earth we’re all just leasing has bad phlegm
Track Name: apple skin
apple skin (456), peach pit (457), watermelon rind (458)

uneasy stomach
empty milk gallon
jug-gle my heart and my brain
the audience claps to the beating
of my childhood
back-lashed by belts
welted principles through eyes undotted
cross my mind like j-walking through
writer’s blocks
i stop at a fruit stand
to pick up an orange
imagine your entire life was selling fruit to strangers
watching them unpeel your purpose right in front of you
then walking away, backs turned
drifting down the sidewalk like dry leaves
that were dropped from their mother’s arms and twigged fingers
i only like to listen to female vocalists because they take
the place of my mother
so here i am, a full grown candle stick
with fire in my eyes
standing in puddles of myself
i’ve got wet feet and a strong urge to cry
but nowhere to drip into
cookie cutter images of my chocolate chip
wants and dreams
i’m a lost page from a book
asking directions back to my daily bind from
a gas station attendant pumping his own heart
with a broken nozzle
book worms on fish hooks
food for my full plate of too much
to take care of in a day,
over-packed weeks,
bulging suitcase of a life
in a fish bowl with card sharks
gambling myself away
but i keep an objective fish-eye-lens perspective
an optimist amidst all these suicide kings
poking their queens in the heart
for a self-esteem booster
power sits on 2 telephone books
with its elbows on the dinner table
all this feet tapping and knuckle cracking
make a bad instrumental for our bland conversations
Track Name: thoughts thinking about themselves under a projector witha cracked lens
thoughts thinking about themselves under a projector with a cracked mirror and an unfocused lens

cutting scissors along dotted lines
sign your name
then break the pen in half, throw it on the floor
faces floored
unaware of what’s in store
and we’re in stores around the world ordering heroes
to help us
breaking news over my knee
let the whips crack and now people are falling in crevasses
getting backhanded by their own children
and america knows the back of its hand
like the back of its hand
buckle down on evil and strap on your seat belt
there’s people speaking in tongues
i listen in ears
and i wish this mute button would just fucking work
saran wrapped cocoon people – well packaged
and ready for inspection stickers
all in lines waiting for the instructions pamphlet
somebody incidentally left out of the box
grab your boots and laces and pray for
a shortage of chalk, so we’re never stuck
between lines
people painted on sidewalks by bad artists
with broken brushes
and civilian eye witnesses wearing wrist bands
to let the blind bar tenders know that they can drink
oh, this beverage on the rocks, stuck between a hard place, artificially flavored with sour blood, cut with water, diluted by salt grains, and decorated with paper umbrellas
my machinegun voice drowns out
your non-swimmer hand gun ass shallow end of the gene pool screams
we’re power! – clenched fists, steroid biceped, dog tag leashed, phallus construct, penis high, economically more erect, viagra for your gapped teeth poverty-stricken housewife, briefcase army of hopeless ants, javelin fenced promise land
we construct our lives specifically to be remembered after we’re dead
time capsules, well recommended to be taken
with a full glass of bullshit
and before a meal off silver plates at dinner tables
where children are force fed with crooked spoons
we are rifle men. hunters, with wives in ovens and
children in pleated skirts at a give me your future
in a wooden box boarding school
place blame where ever it seems to fall
and grand open the cage, dress it in triangular plastic flags
we hang food over heads – leave you under impressions
watch you salivate while we ostracize your beating heart and
make you feel unwelcome in your own head
a rotten tooth in the world’s mouth
-tie it to door number 3 and just wait for
opportunity to start knocking
venom dripping on laminated place mats
critical leaks in the roof of a mouth
where we must find the root canal
fuck it if it really fits into our puzzle
the puzzle with the pieces that aren’t even
aware that they exist on a board
extra sales on american flag printed head bandanas
a village bully with a jock strap around his skull
which belongs to a skeleton
kept in a walk-in closet
lynched by twisted hangers
the attic of a country
with off scented mothballs
and dead bolted chests
stuck out with pride
the big man on campus
in a university of midget minded fools
puppet strings played like fiddles
the ventriloquist makes the wooden people drink a glass of water
and our back bones rot
we need soar thumbs to point fingers at
and digits to pull triggers
keep ‘em clenched
patriotism is at risk, no hang nails, only fine groomed cuticles
sitting ducks waiting for the nail clippers to attack
so we can pull our penises out and cock back
phallus constructs flaccid and we’ve got missiles for arms
let’s cut off the limbs and watch the leaves fall
yes, i’m well read
but best when blue
a military of green capped people screaming go
chaos is in the back pocket of order and i can’t find my i.d. card
it makes me think of warm food in a flower pot
we’re good liars, bad expressionists, but very well entertained
make the popcorn and get new batteries for the remote
it’s a drive in where we’re on the screen getting driven out
by concepts without cars
walk the plank, choose which side of the fence, walk a fence
tame the offense with its elbow pads on tables, don’t touch my morality in its privates
where’s the greener grass, and we’re all on pilgrimages, searching for
miracle grow gardeners
i’m a brick in a wall
that’s getting spray painted
by a graffiti artist that lost his mind
when he found his reason next to the blank notebook
on the floor of his room
where he once hung posters of idols
we all wake up in the morning trying to be
salute to the button pusher
wheel of fortune spinner
bleach distributor
q 33 bombing industrial smiley faces
neck tie in slip knots, panties in bunches
high caste systems and fuck the underachievers
sound the horns and mute the thinkers
sign your name
Track Name: tree branch
tree branch

1
we bought a table no one sits at
she makes phone calls and says nothing
picture a gold fish, one eye, in a 6 ounce cup, no water
what is the square root of a circle without a face
and how do you change a penny
one cents-less mind on one track
the table’s used as a symbol for family
it suffices
hi, i’m here because it’s the correct thing to do
not because i want to enjoy myself
i walked to the store and traded in my happiness
for first quality clothing
i wear them around, out to dinner parties, barbeques,
even in the shower
i’ve tricked myself into believing i’m a magician
i guess i am
it’s like saving all of your life to die with nothing
it’s just the concept that matters?
like planning a vacation
i’m a plan book
a journal bought, never written in
i built this brand new house to live in 3 days before i died
concepts
but what happen when i move into a solitary confinement cell with
no down payment and a mortgage rate to die for?

2
picture her smoking a cigarette on a seesaw
Track Name: tip toeing on a piece of string
tip-toeing on a piece of string
(i hope i’m over reacting)

we talk on the phone
you’re only 11 presses away

sometimes i feel pressed against the wall

but my ego wears press-on nails and
must be careful about what it puts it’s finger on
i wouldn’t want to come out wearing a costume
that costs less than i’m worth
looking shamefully over estimated and mis-under-stood

but sometimes my anxiety lives out of a suitcase
- it just won’t settle down
and worries are like land mines
hidden well, but sometimes explode
and i’m left without a leg
trying to run from my problems
my tears stay bottled up
it’s getting cold
and once this plastic cracks
i’ll have to learn how to swim
but i’m terrified of water
because the diving board keeps looking at me funny
in that non-humorous way
that has only my fears laughing
because we all tend to giggle when
shaking hands with discomfort
and i’m afraid i’ll never fall asleep if you
walk out now
but it would probably be more like getting dragged
like a small fragile child
or a newport 100 getting close to the filter
i’ll never clean this ashtray
make this bed
or vacuum the carpet
i’m scared and scared to say it
the world and everything that surrounds me
is a giant halloween mask i could
never look at in the store
because it reminded me of shit i never knew
No, don’t accelerate at green
because i’m following close behind
and that car coming from the left
is totally disregarding the red,
i’m stuck on yellow
hoping to be charismatic enough for
others to mock me
but i seem to be the only existing snail
in a field of lizards
the only speed limit sign
on a highway of impatient blind drivers
it’s all moving too fast
and i can’t find the stop button
it’s not a movie
we’re not stars
and you won’t even be given enough credit
to appear in the credits
it will all pass
and i’ll be in the car with the staring driver
But I don’t want it to
it seems like we’ve just met
and i can still remember
how much you valued family
they way we sat at dinner
the way you never wanted anyone to know
when you were hurt
the early days
and i hope my cries come home tardy
the first impressions
and second guesses, third degree burns
and i still want to anticipate the forth-coming albums
the high notes and low notes
the second guessing because at least we’re guessing at all
and i’ll put my hand on the stove for a third
of the time we spent together to replace the
emptiness i fear
that i hide from in closets under clothes, trying to
break the knob and hope someone
comes to find me
someone that looks like you
and there’s no clones
or good enough impressionists to wear your
smile like you do
so back when i would give you a hard time, i
just wanted to be held by your attention
cupped in your fingers like falling water
i’ll be the faucet all day, if
you keep washing your face
and i don’t want to write anything
that looks like this again
at least not this soon
so please keep calling
Track Name: a bad math problem
a bad math problem

and i’m wrapped up with myself
my mind’s a rubber band
always snapping to the tunes
i used to hear on the radio
the radio is a room
and i’m trapped up inside
running my head into the walls
just trying to stay alive
i knew you never understood me
always pretending to catch my lines
i’m alone in a body
that wants to kill its own mind

this is a hoola-hoop contest
a ring around the rose garden festival
where we avoid the thorns and fiend for the petals
metal made men – made in china’s black-market
backyards – guarding doors and windows
i just can’t get inside
myself, lately i’ve felt withdrawn and exiled
drawing blanks on the faces of drawn out days
looking in mirrors that reflect a stranger
so i never talk to myself unless my mother’s
not looking, i’m looking for a cause
because i need the effects, i’m a gratification
junkie that just won’t accept its own reflect – shunned
by my own light, i’m searching to find darkness
give her my ring and make her my wife
i want to fuck spider webs and have children
that won’t be bugged
become one with my image so i’m never perceived
as too much of anything
start collecting push pins to mark maps
of my soul so i never get lost again without a way out
load up my car
wash off the windows
clear the drive way
and lock myself inside
but i’ve come to find
that my car,
well, its kind of like my inspiration
out of gas with a flat tire
trying to fuck the parking spot
it married 4 years ago but
too impotent to finish off anything
so i just sit in it and
check myself out in the rear view mirror
dwelling on a fogged up past

the criticism is thick
my high beams seem to be dim
i’m putting paper bags on my face
and suction cupping my image to the frige
i’m senseless trying to buy gumballs
and help them call home
always running short
and wishing i was a little bit taller
holding constipated pens
that refuse to take a laxative
i’ve taken out my spinal cord and attached it to a guitar
i play myself over and over
but i still can’t learn the words
i need a karaoke machine and a teleprompter
i’m losing sleep, staying up all night
writing letters on my eyelids
tyring to help my brain burp and my heart cough up
its phlegm
expressing myself is what keeps me myself
but lately i haven’t been myself and don’t know
how to express that
so i wander the streets in search of the express train
but there’s no fast way out of here
i’m stuck under flesh
poking and prying
its just me and a mic stand
having a staring contest
under a spotlight
of the wrong color
i’m seen under buzzing
light bulbs
that came out the womb
of strobe
in a hospital bed next
to neon
i’m a black light
called tie dye
blow my eyes
i wipe tears with tissues
that’s really my shirt
so i walk around wearing my feelings
i buttoned my heart to my sleeve
it’s laminated and mass produced
but everyone’s dyslectic
and reads me wrong
Track Name: peach pit
apple skin (456), peach pit (457), watermelon rind (458)

uneasy stomach
empty milk gallon
jug-gle my heart and my brain
the audience claps to the beating
of my childhood
back-lashed by belts
welted principles through eyes undotted
cross my mind like j-walking through
writer’s blocks
i stop at a fruit stand
to pick up an orange
imagine your entire life was selling fruit to strangers
watching them unpeel your purpose right in front of you
then walking away, backs turned
drifting down the sidewalk like dry leaves
that were dropped from their mother’s arms and twigged fingers
i only like to listen to female vocalists because they take
the place of my mother
so here i am, a full grown candle stick
with fire in my eyes
standing in puddles of myself
i’ve got wet feet and a strong urge to cry
but nowhere to drip into
cookie cutter images of my chocolate chip
wants and dreams
i’m a lost page from a book
asking directions back to my daily bind from
a gas station attendant pumping his own heart
with a broken nozzle
book worms on fish hooks
food for my full plate of too much
to take care of in a day,
over-packed weeks,
bulging suitcase of a life
in a fish bowl with card sharks
gambling myself away
but i keep an objective fish-eye-lens perspective
an optimist amidst all these suicide kings
poking their queens in the heart
for a self-esteem booster
power sits on 2 telephone books
with its elbows on the dinner table
all this feet tapping and knuckle cracking
make a bad instrumental for our bland conversations
we all make small talk and buy large mirrors for our bedrooms
i want to fall asleep next to my life
and watch it snore all night
i need a reality check made out to cash
and a trumpet player to follow me around each day
do starving artists use their change
to buy lunch or cd’s
i want a stage made of food and
an audience with ears that work
i need a woman shaped like a candle holder
and a mother who can blossom leaves,
a father who can grow fruit,
and a full milk gallon in my refrigerator
imagine your entire life was selling
your problems to strangers
watching them unwrap your purpose
right in front of you
then drifting away like shrink-wrap in the wind
down the sidewalk
Track Name: the public execution of the man with one finger
the public execution of the man with one finger
(feat. Nobs)

the beginning
fuck i can’t find my way home
fuck i can’t find my way home
there’s a fly in my salad
a rip in my t-shirt
a stain on my name tag
fog in my glasses
excuse me…here’s a napkin
you’ve got some testosterone hanging from your lip there
oh look, he’s dressed up as a bicep today…how cute
and he’s even taught his dick to speak
coming out of profile to fit his profile
slapping his tongue in the air
saliva swirling
what’s with those ……um….you’re wearing there
poke me with a fork you dumb fucking rhetoric shoot up
mommy drip juice fell out the loose ionic cooking pot
latex pot holders, push and squeeze
push and squeeze, we’ve got a beautiful cliché here
two balls and where’s the hoop
he’s got a long belt and no pants
so he goes around beating people who looked like him when he was small
yeah it feels good and manly
masculine silhouettes the sun of an alcoholic moon who stayed out at bars all night
and came home walking through the door like fatigued wrinkled condom
slouched and used
…slippers…huh?
come on …you can do better than that…..put some ummff into it
i get my character deficiencies from my father
sport workout tape with legs and the only place i feel at home is on the playing field
i just got out of the gym……. Ok now…stop making a good time out of his clothes
you smidgen of hope
hey you stepped on my shoe fucker
pull out your y chromosome and lets play show and tell
here’s a good ice breaker standing over there
look at this kid …ha , come on girl watch this
i’ll make him look different, by lumping up his fucking face
thinks he’s big time like some over-inflated arrogant wrist watch or something
using all those big words
watch me expose my insecurities by showing you how i make myself feel better
what the fuck are you looking at
i must be some sort of ……uh i don’t know
?…..uh, piece of finger food
to make this dumbbell ironing board pull out his tongue like that
picking on me…….alright wait calm down and count up to 10
put your penal cord back in the wall socket,
settle down and just use the napkin i gave you earlier
ok
oh and… yeah motherfucker

(i usually don’t write shit like this……..oh looknow he’s justifying himself again)

Nobs:

Don’t hate me cause i’m suitable
To become the laughing stock on the trading floor
I’ve paid these whores in wasted time to brainstorm and try to come up with the best one-liner they can
Little boys trying to be men
In pairs of pantyhose… watering down their remarks
I don’t suffer… i enjoy watching you try hard to get in that girls’ pants
Fuck the fuck offs and piss ons
Insecurity had a child and named it you
Believe in yourself and you can accomplish anything
As long as it’s directly related to the humiliation of me
He talks weird and silence makes sense
Patience is a word i’ve learned to use…along with ignore
Uhh…you’re a pig whore
Good one thesaurus man
Unintelligible eligible bachelor
With 3 sluts on the side in case of backlashes from mediocre punch lines
People like you are like people like you
Get it through that thick head
Dickhead
Follow those rats that are chasing the piper
In search of cheesy solutions
The conclusion is at the end of the book stupid
Read up and re-up on that drug called macho
You fucking skipped a couple chapters
I don’t stutter… i speak your language… Hi!
Take that middle finger of yours and stick it up where you talk out of
Those clothes are so yesterday… look at the car he’s driving
Look in the mirror and call yourself a sexy bitch
Faggot
Pretentious pieces of shit who walked out of the dump without a guardian
Your Freudian concepts are as necessary as that tattoo is
Taboo sick… the pleasant sight of your failure doesn’t reimburse me
I
I smell
I smell
Insignificance… masked by the cheap cologne you use to try and hide that manly body odor
I’ll give you some change to call your mom and tell her you’ve made a new friend named acceptance
Shit… he gave you the wrong number
I feel for you…
Is it that time of the month again?
For idiotic comments spewed out of the mouth of someone in self- denial
I’ll take the abuse… you get that noose ready
Don’t forget to kill yourself when you get home
sticks and stones may break my bones
But words won’t do anything but assure me of your small dick size
Imbecile!

Stupid : {
Track Name: three hundred sixty proof
360 proof

window shutters blink
caution
the dam in your sockets may overflow
open eye ducts bleed stains on my shirt
anger has its period - drip
on a pad- i draw question marks
music is playing in the sandbox with a shovel
i’ve been digging the same hole since i came out of one
exclamation point
its been a black and white polariod warped by leaking faucet
and i wish these damn memories would learn to cry for themselves
heir looms passed down the table blowing off wigs, reach for the salt
i’m a family broken at the seams
thread knotted and a needle without an eye
i’ll build my own fucking haystack
where’s the quit button and the promising tomorrows that slept in my playpen
left to go right in a maze without corners
paradise is paper umbrellas and i never swallowed the side dishes
undercooked bedtime stories
lullaby’s without kisses are curdled dreams
and she’s beautiful in her crevasses
the creases and folds
the cup of her ass
but baggy clothes and mittens keep me drinking
she wears herself inside out to tease me
brain like clockwork
mechanics plucking
springs churning
it’s my down fall and i follow gestures like batons
drunk circles doing themselves undone
veins tied around my neck
you strangle bottle necks and find climax at empty bottoms
connected by wires, down throat alcohol swabs
put a cork in it
you need to take care of your problems
give them an ice pack and bandage their mouths shut
i can’t hear myself shut up
mind hiccups
sing from the top of your lungs
then jump
because i need to watch
this house is a river and you were always to couch stuck to teach me to swim
tired of waking up down
wet
dieing every morning is like
an open shower curtain
my painting is smeared and i was always terrible at revision
but good at staying in touch with my emotions
we’re pen pals that hate each other
but glued at the seams
play me like a fiddle
tie my strings around your finger
then tickle my brain until it falls out of its bedroom
fuck your farewell waves
and pretty postcard shore lines
how could i say goodbye
when good is a relative term and everybody’s using it
but i can’t relate to them
my blood must be green
and my family must be a bush
i’ve been trapped in a backyard thinking about how your forehead wrinkles
indian style in a sandbox
with more dirt than sand
Track Name: undersit
undersit

the scent of candy yams and daffodils
that have the word spring tattooed to their ankles
doing a three legged race toward my open door:
- morning
and it looks like garbage dumpsters that
were dressed by cesspools
when i walk outside
one foot on the planet’s back
and the other on carpet that needs to be washed
the air tastes like cotton candy that
took a bath with sweet pickles
spiced with whatever i think grass would taste like:
- 6 am
and i’m off to pretend i know what i’m doing
put on my tight sweater vest
i bought in the conformity outlet
and i’m off to mechanically separate smiles
with my well dressed counterparts
and shoot up vials of artificial intelligence
on my half hour breaks
i’m unemployed in the mind
but my body is a store mannequin forty hours a week
without this job
my week would be an empty glass with one annoying crack
that needs to be filled with something
so i might as well rise with the sun
and pretend we all have a purpose to live out
get up
get out
and give our time to the grandfather clock
in exchange for a paper or plastic bag stuffed with lifetime achievements
let’s all live out the next-door neighbor’s dreams
and get a pat on the back for being well behaved
here’s a biscuit for being my billboard and were all
poster children taught to hang out with the rich kingpins
its operant conditioning in cubicles and our favorite color is green
tighten your neck ties and go add to the traffic jam on a interstate high nearest you
-----------
i now collect pay checks instead of stamps
and stamp on smiles for the customers
i’m a customer to the corporatist
give me a percentage off and i’ve got it on
nice and trim buttoned up and enough
to hide my face
who wears the pants
ironed mind’s blowing steam
fold it on the creases, i’ll bury you in your loop holes
the sight of grown humans in a circle
indian style playing duck duck goose
who’s the oddball we can toss around the ping pong table
i’m tired of trying on pants and hemming
my thoughts to fit into a shoe
that’s never been my size
she’s more than just lunch breaks and drive thru meals
personal phone calls and faked sick days
- life
and it looks like webster dictionaries that were
dressed by thesauruses when i go inside
punch the clock
knuckle up
and think about kicking the manager in the face
the days are like left out milk
in your mother’s favorite glass
and people who will only eat from one specific plate
we’re all china ware waiting for a second serving
but someone’s got to scoop the corn
i wonder if when i was 2 i ever thought it would be like this
childhood in mismatched socks
running through the grass
the limits, the boundaries
grass stains and cuts on knees
now its 24 hour planners, coffee stains, and pay cuts
a big cycle and
we’re all in a whirl wind that lost its spin
swimming doggy paddle towards a boat with no oars
and we’ll do anything for a stage
even if its under construction with ripped curtains and bad lighting
we’re all in a dark room wearing sun glasses and black clothes
trying to act developed but getting angry at whoever steps on our toes
misery loves company
and i’m in the kitchen fixing hors d’oeuvres
we live in a cafeteria sitting at tables where we feel welcome
we’re all in the same arena
just eating different refreshments from which ever concession stand
treats us best
all up on alarm cackles
in the shower
and out the door
but my mind is fucked
and not ready to birth a new way of life
so i abort my fears and pretend comfort fits me
like the shirt i bought for work
to work 5 days out of a 7 day week
at a hated job
but supposedly i love to make money
bulging wallets and gaudy old ladies
the scent of farina and babies breath
that have gang signs burnt into their backs
doing a drive by past my open window
-the alarm clock
-------------------------
driving to work
is like chirping birds muzzled
by tint
and the respirator that’s been installed in my dash board
i don’t even know how i it make there
but i do, every day, every time the sun
opens its cataract eye
it’s like a record with turrets syndrome
stuttering and drooling
each day has needle marks on its face
like a whore heron junkie that
sells his body and masks his face

we all wear potato sacs
and someone’s got a gun
that yells start
when its pushed too far
and we all race until three seconds
before the finish line
when we realize we’ve done nothing yet
--------
Track Name: windows
windows

TIN CAN:
today has turned to ash again
i ash my cigar on my carpet
and i’m just a pet trapped inside your cage like heart shaped birds
with broken wings i broke my mind on the edge of your perfect smile
(blue)
brad:
if i was a room
i’d knock down my walls
for windows
to jump out of
myself

so i’ve been thinking about flying away
but just can’t seem to get my window open
i find it hard to say no to my hesitation
so i just sit and watch this lady walk her dog on a leash
and i think he knows i’ve been taking cigarettes from his ash tray
every night after he hangs his heart up with his robe
i smoke because i like the shadows it makes on my walls
and there’s a whole pack of kids out there
crying in their rooms right now
tired of being put out on the sidewalk
we are slowly burning cigarettes
losing little pieces of ourselves each day
our “ends” are filtered through fables
we’ve been pretending for centuries
smoke me until it burns your finger tips
there’s an ash tray that lies on its back sunbathing with no soap
in the corner of my porch
it’s like this burial ground for dead conversations
i once met this man who could blow out question marks
and i never understood what it meant
he said he smokes because he likes watching his breath float away
i’m a cloud trying to shape up and touch the ceiling
when it’s quiet i sit on my floor with an ash tray on my lap
and smoke the 2 drags left on each cigarette lying in their cemetery
eventually i can hear ignitions turning over
and cars starting…like people
preparing themselves for another day
and i want to leave, float through my window
and fly away


if i was a room
i’d knock down my walls
for windows
to jump out of
myself

TIN CAN:
today has turned to ash again
i ash my cigar on my carpet
and i’m just a pet trapped inside your cage like heart shaped birds
with broken wings i broke my mind on the edge of your perfect smile
Track Name: home suite home
home suite home

i’ve been painting her with my eyes shut
on a giant canvas we all call life
with its rips and stains
she’s a blue dot on my blankness
and i sketch myself as a spilt pitcher
she’s a puddle of tangerine juice on my kitchen tile
her rippling smile’s got me waving
goodbye to my not so baby powder fresh problems
her round hills with nipples like water-wells
her breasts like sand buckets on skin colored shore lines
i’m a coloring-book without lines
and she’s a pack of crayons
colored wax with wicks long as the nights
we’ve spent tied up in each-other’s thread
unraveling from our pin cushion hearts
hit the hay to become two needles in the stack
she caught my eye as if i had thrown it to her
time flies with a wing span of
4 feet hanging out from under bed sheets
where the street ends and we stare at the sky
like we’ve never seen it before
blow out the stars like candles
this place is a fern garden
and i play around in the rose patch
stretching her petals apart
and pulling on her stems
tongues with legs like joggers off sidewalks
puddles in pot holes splash around like water bugs
flower pot g-spots in gardens with tools
chap stick on tulips on top soil overturned
i’ve got thorns stuck in the skin of my memory
like bubble gum on walls
stick to me like velcro
catch the connecting flight at 9pm
we can play horseshoes with the sun rays
you can paint me night and outline your day around me
like shadows in the shape of soda bottles
spill me out for the dead moments lost
and drink me up for the life we’ve caught in fishing nets
like fireflies with 100 watt ideas
her wood burning oven is heating my whole house
and i’ve got sweating pillows
i perspire from my eyes
the way she moves makes my tongue trip over itself
i want to eat meals off her breast plate and stick a straw in her heart
she’s an eye lash on my carpet
she’s been saving all her dandelions for a heart implant
and a mind reduction
soul searching with a butterfly net
and an old mayonnaise jar
i want to be her canvas
i’ll be a burgundy spot on her blankness
i want her to paint me with her eyes shut
Track Name: who
who
who is the genius
the one who creates the puzzle or the one who solves it?

i want to teach my pessimism to start the washing dishes
and my anxiety how to make a noose out of shoe string
i want my frustration to learn to fuck tranquility
and i want a sedative for my irritability and i want an ability to erase myself
from the treasure map
i want an excuse for my reasoning to go home with my logic
and a staple gun to give to my lack of attention span
i want to learn how to read books backwards
and write my autobiography from the ending
i want to sweet talk the seasons into coming home with me
i want to plant metal flowers and learn to grow up the hard way
i want to erase the ash tray from deck so my anxiety stops shivering
and i want to paint a landscape on my windows
so my pain stops trying to get inside
i want to break all these pencils
and use the lead for a bullet
then write my name on its back
so i can touch someone’s life
i want to be the train in your head
and the passenger sitting inside
the rain in a puddle
and the tear on your cheek every time you decide to cry
i’m the aspirin you swallowed and pride you washed it down with
the summer that burnt through your ego’s tanning lotion
i’m the off beat drummer in my chest
i’m the cotton club support capitalism deep throater
the karl marx grass planter
utopia on a bumper sticker theme song
i’m the worn soul on the shoe you couldn’t fit into
the lines between the words and all the people waiting in them
i’m the world on steroids throwing around other planets
i’m mother earth divorcing the grandfather clock
i’m a thief taking my words back
and i’m a broken heart in sling
i’m a girl who throws up in the toilet
and a family man who prays before meals
i’m a microwave dinner, an under-cooked and overprocessed set of moral standards
a checking account with unbalanced distribution of rights
i’m making molehills out of mountains
i’m bird shit on the window of opportunity
and the only thing knocking at my door is loneliness
i’m the nights you undress the tv with your eyes
i’m the blinds, jealous of the windows
i’m the garbage bag dry humping the wind
the cavity tooth in a comb used to groom society’s mind
and i’m the glitch in the system
the sysco food product of an environmental gang rape
the white robed bent up halo printed security blanket
the nail in a splintered nation of cross eyed taxi cab drivers
i’m a pair of glasses with a crack in my perception and
i’m a broken toddlers toy left in the kitchen garbage
cramped under all the left-overs questioning my purpose
i am a thing writing something and wondering who the fuck i am

who what how

i want to stop my heart from beating up my brain
i want to be a street light and block out the darkness
i want to buy a unicycle for love and be its drive
i want a half hour break
and 2 weeks worth of healthy days
a paid for afterlife and a sneak preview trailer for purgatory
i want to understand comprehension and
get braces for my vices
give a nicotine patch to my cigarette pack
and drink my bottled up fears
i want to tell him that his goals are just metal poles and a net
and i want to give him a pair of brand new cleats
i want to be super star with a light switch
and a battery in the sun
i want this song to remind you of a moment in your life
and i think i want too much
i need a burner in my mind so i can record my thoughts
i want her to write all over herself and jump in an envelope
i want to mail myself to the post office
i want her not to cry everyday
i want the speakers to stop popping
the ears to stop ringing and
the phone to hang itself up from the ceiling fan
i want fans
or do i
i want to think myself away
i want the federal bureau to get something in its eye
i want to write a world and move into it
i want a rent free mind and a common fee that’s just sense
i want a moving van for my abandonment issues
and an empty fish tank for all my tears
i want a belt for when i decide to hold up my memory banks
and a baggage check for the luggage under my eyes
i want to teach my clock to work with its hands
and find the sleep i lost three nights ago
i want the division between church and state to multiply itself into recognition
and all these good church going conditioner bottles to stop washing their hair
i want sandals for the amount of feet between here and home
and a welcome mat for the dirty souls trying to break into my kitchen
i want to eat inspiration for dinner and wash it down with black ink
i want to fire the wind and hire the earth as my typist
and write a life for myself and send it to an editor
i’m a salary trying to cut itself
and drown corporate worlds in my blood
i’m a needle trying to shoot itself
and overdose on my own vanity
i’m a padded wall trying to seize the moment
i’m a air conditioner trying to vent itself
and i’m a loaded gun trying get all this anger out
i’m a skyline trying to reach its limit
and a popping speaker that’s taking speech classes
i’m a thing writing something and wondering who the fuck i am

who what how
Track Name: watermelon rind
apple skin (456), peach pit (457), watermelon rind (458)

uneasy stomach
empty milk gallon
jug-gle my heart and my brain
the audience claps to the beating
of my childhood
back-lashed by belts
welted principles through eyes undotted
cross my mind like j-walking through
writer’s blocks
i stop at a fruit stand
to pick up an orange
imagine your entire life was selling fruit to strangers
watching them unpeel your purpose right in front of you
then walking away, backs turned
drifting down the sidewalk like dry leaves
that were dropped from their mother’s arms and twigged fingers
i only like to listen to female vocalists because they take
the place of my mother
so here i am, a full grown candle stick
with fire in my eyes
standing in puddles of myself
i’ve got wet feet and a strong urge to cry
but nowhere to drip into
cookie cutter images of my chocolate chip
wants and dreams
i’m a lost page from a book
asking directions back to my daily bind from
a gas station attendant pumping his own heart
with a broken nozzle
book worms on fish hooks
food for my full plate of too much
to take care of in a day,
over-packed weeks,
bulging suitcase of a life
in a fish bowl with card sharks
gambling myself away
but i keep an objective fish-eye-lens perspective
an optimist amidst all these suicide kings
poking their queens in the heart
for a self-esteem booster
power sits on 2 telephone books
with its elbows on the dinner table
all this feet tapping and knuckle cracking
make a bad instrumental for our bland conversations
we all make small talk and buy large mirrors for our bedrooms
i want to fall asleep next to my life
and watch it snore all night
i need a reality check made out to cash
and a trumpet player to follow me around each day
do starving artists use their change
to buy lunch or cd’s
i want a stage made of food and
an audience with ears that work
i need a woman shaped like a candle holder
and a mother who can blossom leaves,
a father who can grow fruit,
and a full milk gallon in my refrigerator
imagine your entire life was selling
your problems to strangers
watching them unwrap your purpose
right in front of you
then drifting away like shrink-wrap in the wind
down the sidewalk
Track Name: yellow
yellow (feat. girl)

(where did you go)
walking
blindfolded
hands tied
eyes shut
tongue tied
i talk to my walls
and walk on a flat line

heart made of lemon
family of cutting boards
the morals of a carving knife
with your crafty tongue
speaking in wooden architecture
stencil in my thoughts
and erase my blue outlines
rough around the edges
with a nail file in your pocket
you make my brain cringe
eyes tear
mouth jump out of itself

you’re the dirty leak in my ceiling
the drip in the sky
leaving the ground’s make up smeared
my emotions splash in puddles
wet socks making my feet cold
i’m fucking hesitation in the back room
while wearing a yellow helmet
the day yawns in my face
i can’t take your intensions bad breath
you left me wrapped in a black garbage bag
with nothing but a styrofoam cup
i watch your lip stick dry up around the cup’s open mouth
you’ve branded my life
broke the wish bone early
i’m walking around shirt-less like this world owes me late fees
being the early bird without an appetite for worms
is like being gagged with a wooden spoon
you splinter my hopes
and clot my microphones
i beat myself with the mic stand
and tie myself to my front door with the mic cord
you’re a juggler
with fast hands
and a lemon heart

squeezing me dry

(where did you go)
walking
blindfolded
hands tied
eyes shut
tongues tied
i talk to my walls
and walk on a flat line
Track Name: conclusion
conclusion

i went to sleep later than usual today
up all night boarding up my windows
and putting lip stick on my walls
the sun goes down like a depressed man drowning
in his bathtub
i’ve got the cello tied up to my bed with dirty socks
and i’m ready to fall asleep with my arms around it’s neck
i find comfort in music
but the drums won’t face my problems
so i broke my walkman on the pavement
and walked away like a man wearing jogging shoes and a peace sign button
there’s misplaced street signs
and that’s a metaphor
but i can’t find it
the directions are obsolete
and i’m a turned down stereo-type
that won’t stop at gas station for assistance
i’m a one man show that won’t give up the ball
but i can’t dribble
so i lose
traveling
without a carry-on
wondering my existence for a shelter
so it’s over
it’s done
complete
lock the sliding door and set the alarm
get undressed and turn off the television
the lamp goes out
and nobody tucks in my sheets
the radio plays softly like a piano with laryngitis
background noise for my upfront dreams of becoming a highway with punctuation
when i grow up
i’ve got my license to be human in my pocket
and i can’t wait to bump into the painter
whose been coloring everything in blue
the neighbor’s light just got turned off
and i see the world from a sound proof box
there’s no real conversation
just moving lips
and over exaggerated gestures
the wind bullies around the plants outside
and i hope i get at least an hour of sleep