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    phlegm (brad hamers & slomoshun) - debut LP 2002 Three Sides Of A Circle (3SC)
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lyrics

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

credits

from phlegm - one night stands with out of tune instruments in a room with blue wallpaper, released March 5, 2002
lyrics & vocals by Brad Hamers
production by Slomoshun
3SC 2002

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brad hamers Portland, Oregon

writer, music-maker, collage-maker,, performance-maker, loud dreamer, mental gymnast

(member of: Through Flames, Child Of No Nation, Cat Child, Dust On Snow, Two Ton Sloth, Phlegm and Al Límite Collective)

Artist at Shrine13

www.bradhamers.com ... more

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