LOVE IT love it Love it love it melting tooooooooooooooo

they eat your legs first

a collection of songs established in order by the energy used to create them. old sons from 2020-2023

street walk with the green lights

birth

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2Ydoc0piDm42Sk8Eq4mn2y?si=861f7ea360e74d0c

Lyrics:

We are born and soon ailed by pain that 
we know not yet the name of. 
Loudly we cry out.
Then we soothe qualms,
grow calm,
in our mothers’ arms.

Thus, we come to know love.
Years go by, slowly, we grow up,
and we’re ailed by a pain much greater now 
but crying’s not allowed.
And so, once more we long to be 
somebody’s baby.

You’ll be immune 
within her womb,
but me, I’m writing love songs 
to the moon...

Wish I knew
there’s no such thing as you, 
human form of the moon, 
you’re just a hope I drew.

You’re a ghost 
possessing pretty hosts 
until you overflow, 
letting the human show.

So I resume 
looking for you
in everyone I’m allured to,
in everyone I bump into, 
until I learn they’re just people.

I realize
I’ve deified
a fabrication in my mind, 
but I forget under moonlight.

...and as we waltz around in my intangible ballroom, I get all pensive,
and I realize I romanticize not only you but myself too. 
There’s this point I must reach to be who I want to, 
and it requires an inhuman jump.

I can’t love myself,
that’s why I need you to do it for me. 
I know,
let’s play house:
you’ll be my mother;
I’ll be my father;
baby me is crying,
let’s put him to sleep.

We spin around some more and I look into your heavenly eyes,
your impossible, moonlight-colored eyes.
It’s hard to believe my miseries and flaws are what brought me to dream them up. So maybe,
no, definitely,
all those imperfect people I’ve met, and am yet to meet, 
they have their own moons, product of that imperfection, 
and now I’m eagerly curious to go visit their ballrooms.

I stand on the windowsill.
This time,
the sound of everyone below is as beautiful as the silence of the moon above 
but I no longer need to choose between them.

It seems as if the moon was nothing but a bud all along,
and has bloomed before my very eyes...

Ballroom Perpetual

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/2iO03M19EbzvSHkgjGp3tN?si=56e4e0edd9df48b3

Lyrics:

Sweet river boy,
when are you coming to pick me up? 
I’ve been waiting for so long.

Sweet river boy,
did I imagine you long ago? 
Are you a desperate hope?

Still I wait
in my immense,
empty world. 
My glacial, 
grayscale world.

Does no one 
even know 
I exist? 
River boy, 
come to me.

Shell Of A Lunar Shore

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/7DEkiN1pEX47AbxDvAOBZR?si=8d5e34cbd1164b80

Lyrics: 

Down the hall from the entrance to the ballroom, there’s an elevator. 
I get in and press for the top floor.
I want to be as far above from everyone
and as close to the moon as possible.

I step out and find myself in another ballroom, 
this one completely empty
except for myself.

The carpeted floor blots out the sound of the music below.
The towering drapes keep the moonlight from pouring in through the giant windows. 
It seems like this room hasn’t been used in a long time.
I walk to the center.

I picture nights of summers past: 
the ballroom crowded, 
days of old,
the aura rose and gold.

Music and light, 
clashing perfumes, 
the taste of wine, 
the warmth of June.

Laughter and kisses emanate from every mouth, 
but I’m just a distant observer: 
invisible, inaudible,
a ghost from a different time
who does not belong.

I see a pretty redhead,
her eyes shine like the moon.
She speaks but out comes my own voice.
I notice that her face is Valerie’s,
and my mother’s,
and an amalgamation of every woman I’ve ever loved,
 of every redhead I’ve idealized,
everyone whose soul my eyes have dyed.
She’s not real,
never was, never will.

I come out of my stupor:
the ballroom is empty again,
the lights are dim again,
the sound of my breathing is all I can hear again.
I pull the drapes, look out the window:
the city lights are twinkling below.
The city is like her:
messy, convoluted, unappealing by day,
but tantalizingly beautiful when she becomes bejeweled at night. 
Those city lights look so warm.
I feel like everyone in the world is down there except for me.
I wish to be there too, though it was I who chose to come up here.

Now I turn my gaze upward,
and I remember that the moon doesn’t actually shine, 
it only bounces sunlight
off its dark, dead face.

The windows 
shatter into 
smithereens, 
casting 
shards of glass 
nowhere as 
piercing as the 
cold air 
that torrents in. 
I fall on 
my knees.

Oh, put your warm hands on me. I’m freezing. 
Won’t you put your warm hands on me? I’m freezing. 
Oh, put your warm hands on me. I’m freezing. 
Anybody put your hands on me. I’m freezing.

Penthouse Phantom

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0Fca0RLPprw95Sjyyzlw0r?si=692b179811004fb7

Lyrics:

Early and unannounced, 
defeated, I step out.
There’s something I must write about.

I thought I’d find you in- 
-side with the rest of them
but I’m sick of rummaging around.

It’s just impossible,
I feel like finding you
is literally reaching the moon.

Still I howl for you.

So, I’ll write about it, 
like I always do.
I know nothing else. 
I
don't
know
what
to...

...do you
live on the moon? 
Where else could I find you? 
Still I howl up at you.

Howl

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/1kaguvp3Pl4dPlPddshUhT?si=5793e799ee6144f6

Lyrics:

Something’s wrong,
seems my common sense is gone. 
You’ve been on my mind
for too long.

I want you. 
How I want you. 
But I heard
he wants you too.

So, I stayed up all night 
writing verses all about your eyes, 
likening them to the stars in the sky 
and cliché shit like that.

Oh my God,
I am writhing at the thought 
of stronger arms 
carrying you off.

So, I stayed up all night 
writing verses all about your eyes, 
likening them to the stars in the sky 
and cliché shit like that.

To endure 
the sight of you,
I must make you want me too. 
To make up
for lack of looks,
I must croon.

So, I stayed up all night 
writing verses all about your eyes, 
likening them to the stars in the sky 
and cliché shit like that.

Melancholera

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/1Aes9ueAQxitbyWX1PugDS?si=90ad38eddcd0497b

Lyrics:

Oh, life is unbearable for me.
I’m waiting for lightning to
come down from the sky and destroy me since you
have
left, taking
my heart as a trophy.
Now I will forever be
an empty shell at your feet.

Why would I want my arms if not to hold you? 
Why would I want my eyes but to behold you? 
I’d surrender my whole life
to be by your side.

I see
no point. 
This ball is boring,
I can’t endure it dry.
I’ll find
no joy
upon the dancefloor, 
can’t take your hands in mine.

Why would I want my arms if not to hold you? 
Why would I want my eyes but to behold you? 
I’d surrender my whole life
to be by your side.

Why would I want my heart if not to love you? 
What good’s the moon for but to be above you? 
Should I see you one more time,
I might fucking die.

I Have A Thing For Redheads

Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/track/0VacAVqcIAwP7fliViaRwo?si=8816a88cb9e34835

Lyrics:

Do you really expect for me to ask you for a dance 
when you’ve got fire in your hands?
You’ve got fire in your hands.
I would like nothing more than to get closer but I can’t 
cause you’ve got fire in your hands.

You’re scary, I cannot speak, 
but wine will do it for me. 
Should it say more than it should, 
please don’t put the blame on me.

Editing sober what I wrote while drunk 
makes me want to cut off my tongue.

Drunk, I forget it’s not good
to bring up literature.
You’ve only read one whole book
and you hate Holden Caulfield, well I guess you’ll hate me too.

Come Sunday, there will be sand in my mouth, 
and a strong urge for writing but nothing about. 
I think I can take two more Sundays but then 
I’m taking the Hemingway out.

Tequila Mockingbird

Lonesome...
and longitude...

the penis sheath of Milarepa...

and her songs sound like melting snow,
 and flowers shying into colorings,

or moonlight reflecting on a dew speckled web,
or a burble of brook bidding flow unto ebb,

I'll stay here forever!

wanderlust strained through an absence of time,
time I was yours,
time I was mime,

PLEASE fall in love with the empty gestures,
I don't know what else to do,

 on a warm day, 
snow falls to melt away...

so I wear the penis sheath of Milarepa,
so I wear the penis sheath of Milarepa,

and nothing else...

and I pray to a pure land,
to show me the path,
but they took me with sure hand,
and then with a laugh,
showed me the void,
twixt my lust wrath and wrong,
so I'm headed for nowhere,
want to come along?

I'm melting!
II''mm mmeellttiinngg!!
III'''mmm mmmeeellltttiiinnnggg!!!
IIII''''mmmm mmmmeeeellllttttiiiinnnngggg!!!!

The Penis Sheath Of Milarepa

"Write from Wrong"

and if you told me to "look but not touch,
 I'd stare at your sun till my eyes set as such,
 that mine eyes should be dashed where the river rocks roar,
 as long as I washed up upon your sweet shore,
 I'd stare at your star till it fell from my sky
 breathing a teething to soften your sigh,
 gorging my gaze in a creative craze,
 on this dream that doth stream through my nights and my daze...

...and then if you told me, " be seen but not heard",
 not a mutter would stutter away with my word,
 that my silence would stifle the city's shrill shroud,
 my thunder staid under the cleft of your cloud...

...and if you told me "your steed is your scream ",
 then the clatter would shatter this saturnine stream
 I've been wading in fading, so wantless and wracked,
 by the reap of a sow I can never take back...

...and still if you told me to "write but don't reach",
 let the burden be heard in my every beseech,
 why the wheel of my woe it would wind me my way,
 so scant I would pant for the light of your day...

...and still if you told me to "tread but don't try",
 not a finger would linger in passionate pry,
 but my will would not still for the sate of a second,
 until I was bade by the bless of your beckon,
 how I've bound up my breathing and paced in my place,
 and I sent out my sound just to find me your face,
 writing my wrongs till I come out as clever,
 to be planting my songs in your fields of forever,

...and then if you told me to cease still born seeing,
 and bathe this burden in the beauty your being,
 then my stars would cross heaven and hell, sky and sea,
 That a beautiful world...It should happen to me,

The Penis Sheath Of Milarepa

Bad Penny Arcade

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