First time I've had lyrics in a while::
My room seems sad when I look at it. 
Just a bunch of objects in a cube surrounded by other objects in cubes, 
each inhabited by a solitary living being like myself. 
It's so still. Like the unburdened ocean bottoms.
I feel so out of touch. 

When I'm alone in my room, I'm just an observer of the inanimate, 
a god-like creature over stillness, causing movement. 
Like fish in a completely still lake. 

I've been kinda weird lately, sorry. 
May seem like I'm sad or something. 
I'm not, just kinda lonely.

My Room

Move Up If You Want To Be A Sad Lover

Wrote a song
Lyrics:
D
the breaking sun
burning its holy doves
dirty and gray
from the white of winter day
Em
to the next landing 
on a lunar bay
the fights are for justice
there no room for love
D
we got soaps 
and a hopes 
for less commercials 
on the wires 
of tv whore lives
Em
blessed gods wear make up too
gotta look good 
for the camera tube
G
Jesus was a man
but he would have been trans
couse hes got that body
so toned and sculpted
A
those cuts work it

raging fans left unsatisfied
create a crusade 
a wave of hate 
masked vigilantes 
and masked killer nannies
rock paper scissors 
killers eat killers
over nuked tv dinners
as we call out the winners
of last years beginners
the underdog story
made in Manhattan 
hitched in a lorry 
so god damn boring

Jump on this carousel 
infinite unsatisfying well 
of the two faced church bell 
all will follow into hell
or into a cold cell
telephone the rotting corpse
of histories forgotten course
as it eats and lives and dies again
this pheonix repeats all the pain. 
this pheonix repeats all the same.
this pheonix is history, come with me to witness thee:

breaking clouds
humming airplane sounds
segregated white kid towns
suburban barks of useless hounds
pillow screams of kids with downs
to hate the different
and be belligerent
what will and cant 
distracted with a rant 
there's no kindness 
if you give it less
the spirit told u to do ur best
and happiness is just a test
give to ur sister and brother
look not in the plate of another
unless you are to discover
there is enough for them to eat 
not wasted on a lazy seat
working heavy on the beat
a hood too dirty for children's feet
a place divine and bleak
fight to live another week

seek for food
a persons good
hidden blood
hides in dark woods
taken for crucifixes
Saprticus fought for the weakest
mice squeak and scare the bravest
elephants used as a necklace
swords break and metaphors fade
oceans raid
unstable wages
places covered
wet new lovers
a married scream
carried by a telephone beam
nobody twitches its useless believe me
this place is jaded 
waiting on a jihadist pay day

werewolf strikes the moon
h-bombs dropped from a balloon
with a big m and a smile tattoo
pasted on its plastic body
old man wishes he was g cloon
to get a honey - pooh couldn't reach
fat figures plug the breach
cats checks bounce to noon
too late it came too soon
no home, wife or car
last resort hit the bar
liquored up to the star
wander north look bizarre
lost walker of the modern age
a pilgrim filled with rage
drunken waltz turn the page
you know too much of this cage
give my regards to the other stage
of existing. 

In a place like this

a story i wrote and improvised some music to it. 

The Old Man

improvised some chords and melody for some lyrics i wrote a few weeks ago

Not This Pathetic

Blue Eyes

It Takes Years

We just made a fun little recording.  :)
Mixed and produced by Benjamin Söderström.

Lyrics
--------------
Yesterday was quite a peaceful day after I created my Machine.
However, today seems to be rather bleak.
May it be that we are not ready for automated beauty?
I didn't think it a possibility.
What is my Machine you ask? 
It's simple:
the Machine is a poet.
Poet Machine. 
It takes rhymes and stories from all languages,
snatches phrases and metaphors out of pages,
hurls, rearranges extracts and changes.
At first the hand of a human was still needed
for it would ask:
"How many lines should i write?"
"with rhymes or without?"
"an epic, a sonnet or haiku?
I will do it all for you."
It spoke so beautifully and asked so politely.
The parameters so clearly stated any one could handle it.
"Should I be crude or rude?"
"Should I use slang or be phonetically bland?"
"Write like a beat or a thug from the street?"
So many questions it could ask.
It became very much a job in itself. Options upon options.
Choice upon choice.
So i decided the machine should write for itself,
and all we would do is press 'generate'.
This is what happened today:
I sat all afternoon, generating returns of poetry.
Some was nonsense - or was it sense?
Couldn't tell you see, for it was of a mechanical brain.
By late supper I had not one work of art that satisfied me.
It was all so easy to see what it would produce next.
Today poured over into tomorrow,
as the moon dove into the horizon and the sun rose like a dolphin.
The two would compete in bigger jumps as the trees did their dance,
and shook off all leaves to show their naked bodies and make love
straight onto spring. 
As I... as I
Consumed poetry with greed.
Ouroboros' gluttony of art and beauty.
The machine had corrupted us all. For it sold billions.
Now, at last, we stand - but really sit - as poets;
quietly reading, enjoying, judging, hating,
and generating.

Josef

The Generation (produced by Benjamin Söderström)

Another day of recording with Benjamin gone well. A low key song about love and stuff.

Lyrics
it's a real downpour outside
and i'm ready to stop hiding 
because i feel like i've lost everything inside me.

i'm listening to Van Zant
and figuring out just what i can't
and why I am here and where exactly is that?

If i'm honest 
it'll be the first I'm in a while
but if i'm cruel
i wouldn't be surprised

the clock keeps hitting midnight
and i keep thinking i'm alright
but my broken emotions seem to keep getting further out of sight

the lovers leaning in at the bar
look like young beautiful movie-stars
it makes me think that the plastic thing called love ain't too far.

if i'm honest
it'll be the first time in a while
but if i'm cruel
i wouldn't be surprised

if i'm honest
i'll be the first time in a while
my memory is degraded
and i've kept the truth sweetly faded.
if i'm cold
i wouldn't be surprised
if i'm sad
i wouldn't be surprised
and if i'm cruel
i wouldn't be surprised

if i move on
don't think my love is gone
it's there... it's quietly
keeping me from vertigo 
keeping me from vertigo

God Damn I've Been Vain (Produced by Benjamin Söderström)

C                   
I'm scared of what you'll think of me
       Am                      F                        
If you saw me alone drinking a Sternburg in the park.
C            G 
C                                       Am                          
I know you look down on those low-lifes without a second's thought.
    F                                                 C              G
But you never realized that some days just need to be spent alone
C                             Am
with a beer and the birds and the faces of strangers
F                                  C                  G
blurring slowly as the sun sets on distant clouds
Am
watering suburban parked cars. 
F
One more beer and I won't care.
C
One more beer and I won't care.
am
One more beer and I won't care.
F
One more beer and I won't care.
C G C

Alone In Berlin (Produced by Benjamin Söderström)

The first thing I could see was sand 
dancing out of open windows
bouncing off the glass and the bride's-veil-curtains
onto hand-laid clay tiles.

Walking in I passed the arch of a smoke gray door,
I felt my bare feet sticking to the cold wet floor
I sank deep with one foot in the *floral carpet
realizing then: this house was not of our planet.

A crate must have fallen from a cosmic ship 
engulfed in the clouds where only lovers slept.
And there must have been a helluva storm,
to fill her up, and give her life to sail and swarm.

pale beach i can't go on.
your pale paint looks like its gone
pale beach i can't go on.
your concrete walls - where i belong.

There was more than history here,
like a tear in the past of future's fear. 
I could feel the black wooden ceiling drooling on my head, 
draining slowly whatever was left,
growling: what once had life now lay dead.
But I knew of walls that burst with life; 
i'd seen houses that bore more than a catholic wife.

Cracks and blisters come from age and work and sun and water,
and this house had lived beyond the frail paintings 
(that expressed some passed vision of surreal beaches) 
of that grand forefather.

pale beach i can't go on.
your pale paint looks like its gone
pale beach i can't go on.
your concrete walls - where i belong.

Washed up to shore, this concrete crate of art, 
in sunset peach, lay slate, 
cold, inanimate, 
like a worn shell of a home
in a hopeful tide of foam.
To be born again from the waters of a painter's jar -
away from the man and the wife, whom left long ago,
far from here, yet here they are. 

I pulled my leg away and sat in an armchair
that had been sat in countless times before me.
And I thought of the noise that must have been heard here:
more raging than a sea, and more serine than a gull beyond the coast,
calling to the dewy petals of a wilting host.

Vaguely, memories of my own past came back, and thoughts of rain, 
filled the void inside my brain,
and I wished I was there in 1933, 
with the couple - the crabs of the shell - and their family, 
before the first hits were taken,
and the water started filling, and the walls started tilting,
the floors started sinking, and it was left to be forsaken.

pale beach i can't go on.
your pale paint looks like its gone
pale beach i can't go on.
your concrete walls - where i belong.

~ breath ~

House Of Water

Control

Just a song I recorded while my mom was cooking :)

Kitchen Folk

My idea is to try to write and quickly record at least 1 song a week and post it. It can be improv or not even finished, but it has to be something.
"It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light. Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it." - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Josef Martinovsky

Popular tracks