PSYCHIC VAMPIRE BATTLE: In this world we are as we live- empty fucking lies. In the boardroom sits a human feeding off another human. Psychic vampire battle, in the trenches of the war. We are made marionettes, with nothing but resentment to share. There are no answers to the questions we neglect to ask. Smothered with our own waste and our feelings, nail my ambitions to a cross and hang me. Make your desires your life, kiss them on the lips, hope and prayer is useless, all we have is this, this moment.
-this song was written about how i felt about work and/or leaving the house in general for a while. i like the positivity of the ending, and it's not just some "stay positive" type of bullshit, it's something i really would like to think i'm trying in my own life. bit by excruciating bit.
THE VISITOR (Concept and several lines- Dan Fox): Streaking across the sky, light-years away from life, decisions are made that transform flesh to currency. Staring in the mirror, you identify your captors, as the quietly whisper in your ear, "Seig heil to the farmer in the sky." Through weather control and brainwave modification, the bleating of commands empties into the wellspring of humankind, sending their sick sound into vibration, as they quietly whimper, "Seig heil to the farmer in the sky." They've colonized our thoughts as they colonized nature's actions. It worked before; it'll work again in the name of the fascist in the sky.
-literal (the greys and the masons/illuminatus have combined forces to control our minds and keep us in line) or metaphorical (it seems like perhaps the greys and the masons/illuminatus have combined forces to control our minds and keep us in line), it's your choice.
THE DOGMATIC BULLSHIT PROPEGATOR'S VISIT TO HEAVEN: They watch us from towers in this metropolis, impotent eyes watch in silence; their cameras let us in. A whole life, just an encore for another person's ideas; force-fed facts and desires, which are never fulfilled. There are cold hearts making cold decisions high in heaven, and the angels are all dead, wings scattered on the ground.
-paranoia and sacrilidge. prerequisite.
WINNER OF THE PIE EATING CONTEST: Overfed, diseased, and rotting, the corpse of an entire nation stumbles forward always pointing straight ahead with pioneer hate. Walking forward to the stage, operated by remote, it clumsily accepts its prize as its dependents choke on lies. A statue for your sloth, an award for your opulence. You are the winner of the pie-eating contest. Fuck off, mad destroyers. You are the winner. You are the fucking winner. You are the best dressed.
-fuck your job, pig.
THE SACRED TRAGEDY THEME PARK: We sit asleep with our eyes wide open, rotating on an axis with a fixed point of view, swallowing and choking off the tears. We watch the screen as the screen watches us, making sure we weep on cue. We sit sobbing with our mouths wide open, watching as six thousand people die and die again, the NSA, and other agencies... into our open mouths.
-strongly influenced by the masturbatory media coverage following the collapse of the world trade center in the united states of america. the NSA is the National Security Agency, who are real and are like a more evil and more powerful version of the CIA. they could literally have you killed and erased.
YOU LIAR: You are a liar. What you said, you fucking liar... you fed me to the dogs and told me you were loving me. But maybe to you it's true.
-lying is a big pet peeve of mine. this is not necessarily about a lover, it is just another way of saying "don't piss in my boots and tell me that it's raining".
YOUR MILK IS MY POISON: As we walk through the city streets our choices are many, to suffer one way or another on our little stage. Your milk is my poison; your sweat is my bane. You want me to drink it until I drown. When we dream, we hear whispers, echoing like thoughts in our bedroom walls. As we wake to live another day our hearts beat as one, waiting for the chance to beat faster in unison. Transmit what makes you sick and destroy it. As we pray we hear whispers, echoing like shouts down our prison halls, which only the few can hear. It tides us over until we can taste the wretched blood pouring out of your face.
-wishful thinking. our rock epic.
A VENDETTA WITH THE MAN IN THE YELLOW HAT: An evil antagonistic hollowed out man sits in a position to run your life and all you can do is hope you're on the right team when the hammer falls. Honor. Cowards. Terror. Evil. All words that mean nothing when coming from a fascist like you.
-you liar part 2.
THE CARAVAN (LEFT US HERE TO STARVE AND WE HAD TO EAT OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS): Far from Kansas in moving lines my family walked barefoot and homeless. Lives shattered by white tongues spitting lies. Homes paved over, graves unearthed, holy land replaced with gas stations. Peace loving gentle people raped by the civilized swine. They tell us that our life is a privilege, and they build our homes on stolen land. Those who stand in their way are criticized and made into examples. Left to feed on our fat and starve on the reflection off the television screens. Falling down on our knees, hands together, petitioning the lord that you built for us. All of this artificial light you put in my home is only here so i can never see the sun again. Some of us beg for reparations but the only reparations we will recieve we be when you are laughing from the throne of your tomb, your final resting place.
-this is a very literal song about my grandmother and her family. they were and are the family the kaw nation, or kanza tribe, who are now centralized in oklahoma.
A CLONED TORSO: Genetic nightmare with veins pulsating, sending blood to non-existent organs. Excuse-filled morality motivates to deify a technology that will be used in the beginning stages of our extinction. Near as subtle a fate as a knife to the back of the throat, the life of a body part without a home. Oh, oh, oh, cloned torso.
A STORY THAT IS NOT YET WRITTEN: Breathing in synonyms, with options for change again, it runs through our bodies and makes us feel pain. The people we become as a result of this pain are not failed reproductions of a successful existence. This life is your making, the result of your bigotry. We will reset our roles. We will rewrite your history. Seasons turn to years as rapidly are we're willing to notice our lives end in increments. The past and future never existed, just lies we accept to keep us from the present. This life is your making, the result of your bigotry. We will reset our roles. We will rewrite your history. With our pens and hearts, we could bear this whole weight hand in hand; we will ghostwrite you off the face of the earth. Our memories deceive us and history repeats itself. We will lie dead with our eyes wide open.
THE MOST IMPORTANT SLAVE: There are wires and switches where your hearts and nerves should be. You're the most important slave; you make the moves that make things happen. You're the most distinguished clone, a manifest of perfect design, at your own command, inside. Perpetual motion propaganda, inside. By your own volition, by satellite. Radio microwave implant cauterized. We shut off all desire in favor of security. You're a statue that is constructed to honor those who bury you. Obituary slowly written on the blank slate of your life. You can't get away from the cold harsh grip of this reality. Saturated with illogical ideology, a paranoid castrated catastrophe, in bed.
-in reference to a record breakingly high lowest temperature, and i quote- "that's like saying the tallest midget. or 'you are the most important slave'." a song about the 'spectacular lifestyle' as Guy Debord would put it. this song is also known as "Rusty Shackleford", Dale Gribble's alias on the animated television show King of the Hill.
