1. |
Gn Fshng
01:09
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2. |
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Where do they grow, those Flowers of Evil?
Here and there and in Hell.
Where we will know our harrowing histories,
Then furnish the furnace, just as well.
Where do they grow, those Flowers of Evil?
On a hill, on a field, or over the Wailing Wall?
Nature's eye blurred into something primordial.
Fear of the first man born again.
Spectator or spectacle?
They're only private miracles.
We're only an Orpheus song as he climbs his way down.
Every dark step's like writing a mythology,
Goblins and gods in the crease of our heads.
Spectator or spectacle? They're only private miracles.
We're only an Orpheus song as he climbs his way down.
Those Flowers of Evil trampled
By the marble faces they came here with,
By the useless outlines they drew around our town.
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3. |
Euth
03:06
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To be a perfect pillar of the glorious East, we try to be.
And not to acquiesce into that solipsistic space in between.
You were a child of casual mistakes,
Always unforseen, like those you still make.
Teen relics you can't seem to shake.
In our youth, we must choose but one abuse
To outlast us when the Dolorous Stroke falls.
Objects cast, Lady Lyle's spell built to last.
But G0d help us, he's not holding one at all.
Up ahead, two slight figures in November,
Embracing for the coming plague.
Shrouded in fire, though they hadn't ever burned up that way.
She says to me there's no love inside futility,
And all the things that we can't see are all the things that are holy.
So I tried my luck at empathy and wound up in her arms on Judgement Day.
And in our youth, we must choose but one abuse
To outlast us when that Dolorous stroke falls.
Objects cast, Lady Lyle's spell built to last.
So G0d help us, he's not holding one at all.
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4. |
Wassail
03:18
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I'm so content with who I am and where I am in life today.
That's the problem:
It's not boredom, but success has me dug deep in dismay.
Then these instances of self-defeat
Set me back where I'm more comfortable
And more miserable.
Don't trust in the crazy, nihilistic, and frankly unpredictable.
Most days I see myself an utter disappointment.
And it's a miracle that you stuck around.
Kinda hard not to worry bout the mental stability
Of a boy who spends his Winter Break playing chess with himself.
Then these instances of self-defeat
Set me back where I'm more comfortable.
I'm fucking miserable.
Don't trust in the crazy, nihilistic, and totally unpredictable.
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5. |
Splayed Open, pt. 1 & 2
03:00
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Pt. 1
It's on the tip of my tongue, or in the muzzle of your gun.
Or in the fading frontal lobe
Of the boy who's most strung out
In a closet somewhere, or in the next state, you don't care.
Taped to the roof of your mouth, building up to a shout.
Building up to a shout.
You're the next best way out.
You're the next best way out for me.
You're the closest thing to reprieve.
Trust me dear, it's no shortcoming.
You're the highest rung that really bleeds.
It's like a song in the dark--I'm trying my best to sing the melody.
You say it's straight from the heart,
But I feel it emanating out from every other part of my body.
You know what it's like, and that's why you feel right.
So I'm burning the photographs of your most heinous crime.
Your gruesomest murder--for me.
That's why you're the closest thing to reprieve.
Blood of Christ on your frigid, shaking knees.
You're the only messiah that bleeds.
Pt. 2
It's not moment of glory,
Nor admittance of defeat.
And you're twice over welcome to stop listening.
And you call yourself Vulture,
You can swim, but you won't eat.
And I love you more
Than I love G0d,
But that's not saying
Very much.
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6. |
Beware the White Things
02:55
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I watched the Cubs game after you left.
Mixed whiskey and Pepsi.
With every sip, I felt less bereft.
There's ghosts in my house, I hope there's ghosts in yours
And maybe a vampire so you can feel wickedly secure.
And we'll worship Satan together
On Saturdays, or just whenever.
I'm getting older
Just like every other person and thing.
It's weird what existential doubts
Getting older brings.
'Cause I'm in love with you. And I'm in love with now.
And we're praying everywhere
'Cause we're morbidly devout.
Here's to waking from a sickly sentimental dream.
Sometimes it's flesh or malcontent.
That's the nature of the thing.
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Africa America Huntsville, Alabama
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