Nostalgic Emo Shit

From 2004 full length "As the Roots Undo"
Released by Robotic Empire and Hyperrealist
Recorded and mastered by Anthony Stubelek at Rockstudio in Brunswick GA

Ignorance is bliss no wise woman's failed to mentionand surely some koan suggests 'neglect leads to perfection'but the more I turn my face from the crowdthe more I feel my backs' increasingly compelledfor the sake of escape, to turn a knife on itself,a knife of relief, from all the petty insightand finally I'll sleep, I'll sleep through the night.Bored as fuck on this street corner-cover.study of a face in a figure. surveying this language as a gamesurvielence of this language as the plague.the dimension of persistence condemns.This portrait of karma, crafted in accidenttext book seduction, minus the text in the language of ghostsand so we ran, like the wolves were biting,the inhibitions of their prey kept them from screaming"scratch my back and I will stab you in yours"so I chose to live this life alone, without the teeth marksbut I predict, I'll have to sink my fangs in someone else's heart to heal my own.Just a victim's split, one part for the wolves, one part for you.but I'll grow weary soon, weary of this fractal code,wary of this hallway lined with ghosts.Just a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to let them intheir words will cause the sweetest fracture from a stone's throwjust a scratch upon the skin, a drop of blood to welcome themparasitic, viral critics, or lovers, like spirits mingling in the mistthat we crafted, a starving jury, let them eat shit from our trembling hands.The heat for heat's sake, on this Barnard block of Congressdeductively speaking, the polar of progresswell maybe I put too much faith in the accidententranced, we danced toward the ripest display of escapelet the starving ghosts feats, from this flesh, from these bones,let them all feast. light as a feather, let the starving ghosts feastIn this chess game of language, forced to sit so I play all alone, watch the bathos drip forth like the petals from a wild crafted rose.


"Non Objective Portrait Of Karma" from As the Roots Undo 2004


From 2004 full length "As the Roots Undo"
Released by Robotic Empire and Hyperrealist
Recorded and mastered by Anthony Stubelek at Rockstudio in Brunswick GA

Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we found just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak loses urgency.
Our animal indecency in print is so blase.
Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.

Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely pricks the sky,
the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never breaks
I don't stumble into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that feather I found but its all so contrived.

My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this will end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed manifestation of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I've got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody. 


"Crowquill" from As the Roots Undo 2004

From 2004 full length "As the Roots Undo"
Released by Robotic Empire and Hyperrealist
Recorded and mastered by Anthony Stubelek at Rockstudio in Brunswick GA

Rejoice, rejoice a noble birth, a prince is born.
Behold the birth of violence, beasts of fang and feather cry for our concrete rapture,
and if we beg to be put down, unto us the most inspired storm.
A princess ravaged by her prince behold; the birth of sex and distance, two frail corpses both were they, his eyes were the first to stray... every tree held fast the earth to sky.
Concrete replaces every branch and twig as they were frayed upon the birth of ambition. The heavens filled our gilded vessel with poison tears, before we drink, I propose a toast, a final prayer.
Here's to the watchers in the wood, here's to the last days, unto us a most inspired song.
Shaper, stop the music.
Halt the harp strings whose chords confuse our histories with textures.
With the disheartened chorus of a hymnal whose choir is the conviction of the starving, artless, tempted by the feast of proof that this body of work has worth.
Uncertain as the fingering of a chord torn prematurely from a piano's womb.
As we fill our precious lungs with concrete, that faithful shade, a shaper's song is stopped short- a dying breath a singing shore.
Then the only movement and the last remains of grace:
Pollen falling off the simple hinge joint leg upon the final breath of a dragonfly.
A cardinal, lost but headstrong in mid flight cries for our concrete rapture, wade...
in the water, wade. Let the flood swell, thank the storm for her tears.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will
but the fool knows what the prophets have seen, no salvation's impending.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will let the flood swell and the bodies that break we'll just float down the river. Stay tame, soft river, while we weigh our faith, stay sweet, run softly, sweet river, the fool who wades in doubt will float like concrete.
Come and fill your lungs. Come and fill your lungs.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
The faithful say its beautiful, its god's will, let the flood swell
on the loudspeaker sermons and a parish descending.
There's so much hope buried underneath tragedy, its the same shade as concrete.
Let the flood swell.


"Same Shade As Concrete" from As the Roots Undo 2004

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Pulled out some pieces of my fucking hair, tried screaming “help me” but nobody cares. And I am not strong, I’m foul mouthed and fucking ignorant. Two years later I’m not different: still made of pieces that will not fit, forever fucked and too dramatic. I wear my heart upon my sleeve like I did when I still eighteen, and goddamnit it gets the best of me. One thing I’ve learned since coming to terms with moving on is no matter what I used to have: it’s gone. Pull out my fucking hair, I’ll die alone and not care.

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