1. |
Primer
03:08
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Last night a thunderous storm tore through this town,
And the dumb rage of an impotent god made its first sounds.
The congregation had been thinning, the philistines had done their part
T o distract the faithless sheep from the old man's art.
Because their lofty little lies had started eating at the pride of the arbiters of the divine.
And the artist who remains anonymous is never signed. Every god needs an audience.
So he picked himself a prophet, someone who could feed the sheep
And contract their bleating souls for a sinner's fee.
So they built themselves a temple from the wreckage of the storm,
And no dissent was ever heard again from the satiated horde.
Because their dank and dusty world had started begging for a primer.
A hefty cog that could cause the mess.
Because the canvas that's abused is better used than not at all.
Leave it for the dogs of memoriam.
One day my visage will be buried by the flood,
but maybe the waves I make will carry some of my blood.
Maybe I'll be read and maybe I'll be judged.
Maybe I should have just shut my ass up.
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2. |
Seeing Double
03:04
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Sometimes when a boy comes home late at night,
His heart will concede the scene to an impartial eye.
And he'll see his shrines deprived of their nostalgic shine,
And the childhood tree will look like any other seed in the shit.
'Cuz its a dull and lonely life if you look to hard.
Each face is shaped just like the next,
And be it heads or tails the coin will prevail,
And we will gaze with no authority.
Sometimes when a man stares straight into the fire,
His eyes will begin to believe that they have lost their mind.
And the stench of the sleepless streets will start to taste like wine,
And he'll get drunk off of his hate of the cruel and the clamoring swine.
'Cuz its a hot and crowded sty if you look too hard,
And I just keep coming up with heads.
But if I ease my gaze, I may straighten the maze
And see the world for what it really is not.
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3. |
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There was a deep, blue black with endless points inside of it. They would bounce forth and back with nothing deciding where they would stand, until at one point it was understood by a blind and mangling hand that if you settle your grip on a thing without hate it will start to softly sing, and like a stone in space it will stand in place and the universe will start to spin. And with the dance comes sleep, and the soft retreat will begin its humble end.
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4. |
Book I (Roman Birth)
02:42
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Whatever god it was
Who out of chaos molded this earth,
He was a hater of dirt.
Things started off golden, because things remained unspoken.
But quickly things began to rust,
Because quickly things lost their trust.
And so the old man groaned, and his thoughts turned to fire.
But he remembered what he'd been told, so instead he let the waters rise.
From the perilous blue emerged a vessel of two,
And on Parnassus they prayed for someone to show them the way.
And so she told them what to do.
"Throw your mother's bones behind you."
And from a stone sprang life, and her secrets remained hers to hide.
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5. |
The Repertoire
03:47
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Here it stands, the sorry repertoire.
These puny hands have sure been working hard for you.
I carved my name on stripped pieces of bark
And sent them off down stream into the dark
Of the belly of the beast I was born by.
Food for the feast of her ghostly choir.
This is the game us selfish creatures play,
Throwing boomerangs and hoping they will relay.
Because there ain't nothing worse than the silent pain
Of never being read by the rest of the gang.
So I will scribble these senseless lines down
And pray for brains that are strange enough to figure them out.
Tie me to this weightless world.
If you can hear me I hope you understand.
I only wanted what we all want,
And I only ate what I was fed.
Here it stands, the sorry repertoire.
These puny plans haven't made it very far beyond my feet.
So I will sit here beneath the restless trees
And let the beast eat whatever it may eat.
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6. |
Cannibalistic Nit-Pick
03:59
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These futile sounds will be the death of me.
The meaning they seek is a tomb.
And the signs on the cemetery road point every which way,
But all of them lead us towards the bones.
There's a well within each grave that's filled with holy water
And we stick our straws through corpses for the milky gold.
But what we taste is never as sweet as we thought it would be.
All we get is the mold.
So look alive. We never die as long as we keep on writing.
The word is good. It predates dates.
So sing your heart out, and etch your voice into the deep.
In time, we will come to see the naked truth as the whore he's always been.
He will lay in anybody's bed if the price is right, and if the right lies are said.
So feed me what you can, my thick and fleshy friends,
And I will gorge myself on your sweet epidermis.
Never again will I seek his love, no I will stay satisfied by the dear relative.
So look alive. We never die as long as we keep on riding this wave.
The word is good. It predates hate. So sing your heart out,
And etch your voice into the deep.
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Pilgrim Los Angeles, California
Fuck it we'll do it live.
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