1. |
Chandeliers
02:18
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Spark! Ingenious! Drive intact.
Lightbulb filament wire lit up like a match.
The pressure's growing inside glowing glass.
I can see! Electricity impromptu; jagged edges radiate through
my scalp to illuminate the room.
The hair stands out of my head; burnt like birthday candle wicks.
Eyes flicker black and white static.
Surge burnt it out. Light fallen back.
Technician brain is lazy, unskilled, drunk and fat.
It can't be fixed; you just can't force it back.
Patiently! It's a shard of glass in the sand;
it gets the blood flowing and then it scabs again.
It's a run on sentence and it never stops and it never progresses and
it never ends; the cycle stands, waiting for another conductive end
to jump to and fill the bulb again.
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2. |
Kunsbahn;Naturbahn
04:10
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It's said the lives we live lay out in directional purpose;
that all forks in the road have all but one avenue unfocused,
but when the ground splits beneath me it's between my feet,
breaking into obtuse points like cartoon dinosaur teeth.
It's more like having gymnast hips
than instinct with downhill momentum, forward speed trajectory.
It's more like pulling teeth
or choosing door one, two or three
than having a final destination with a hook in me;
barb large and sunk deep in my bone, line tight and strong;
drawing me through waves to create wake,
bathed in my marrow of my jaw.
Direct like a skipping stone; it's more like finding a stray dogs home when you find him alone on the side of the road,
bruised with food and a bowl than falling asleep.
I can't say I feel the pull on more than if everyday actions are moral; that conscious burning, demon and angel
whispering bias shouting in my ears.
If I am to be led by the stars at night
I need one to stand out and be the guide
because I'm through chasing satellites;
circling the earth to find purpose and worth.
Arise! Arise, directional ghost!
Paint me the map on my eyelids that tells me which way to go.
Arise! Arise, silent compass show
yourself if fate is real reveal which way is north.
The path is long. The hills are tall. It takes the breath out of my soul. Scaling rocks with blind faith, praying for the sun on the other side. There's more directions to go.
Single step platforms collapse like in Mario.
I can't explain this concept of fate;
the idea that my agonizing, indecisive anxiety stricken days only play
into unattainable change; Frozen surface currant carries my weight through time and space
to the grave.
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3. |
Midwest Process
03:16
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We were born on plains,
off country roads, or on flat empty streets in the city.
We heard other places had hills, chills and thrills
like you see in the movies.
We grew up living on empty slates.
We made the most of life in ordinary places.
Placed passion before location,
we worked for creation and made inspiration
What we have we create
What we have is what we've made
Yet We find ourselves in the loop again;
the inevitable settling of our hearts after boil;
the cooking of brain waves flooding our senses,
stench coating our witness of plausible sentences
describing dreams and ambition in ambitious sentiments.
I remember when my eyes glowed like insects dying.
Electric hopes rippled under my skin,
doubt in shackles, crowned in conducting fashion
with a sponge dripping face full of empty expression.
To be inspired is my only intention.
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4. |
Tundra
03:13
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