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  • Streaming + Download

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

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
--------

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

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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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