A funky ‘domestic epic’ abiut a highly tumultuous family unit, and the one kid who completely defies the precedent around them and becomes a very different kind of person. 

All songs composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars...

...except "I Was Reading in the March of Time", which features orchestral elements composed by Alex North, piano by Bill Evans and electric keyboards by Herbie Hancock...

...and "I Just Want to Make Jelly of the Stars", which features bass elements composed by Vignesh Dhileepan, and guest vocals by Yoshi....

...and "TravyonMarti", which is based on a theme composed by Zaytoven.

Our War and How We Won It

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

“I eat any bar that would use my family name
With the prejudice of caramel ”
My brother laughed at my display of rapperly flair
And the stars above applauded,
Upon the hill at night, he knew how to get through to me, simply
By refusing to treat this child like a child
And we’d catalogue everything in nature: the constellations;
Of what cheese the moon; a chorus of frogs, anything wild.
Perhaps alarmed by my tendency to vandalise
The chorus’ lillipads, dessicate habitats,
And my generally aggressive disposition, brother,
Master ever of the revealing question, asked “Say I could give
You anything; what do you really, really want?”
I said “I want to conquer everything in this galaxy I see,
Like our daddy would…”

"…I want to make mama out of mother
But a father out of dad
I want to punch the moon spinning
Through milky way and Mars bar
But most of all I just want
To make jelly out of the stars
And have a little wit, enough to spread it”

“Venus for academy, Mercury for a hunting ground,
And Mars for the party – no Mars a prison for villains
Whose villainy can’t be contained in earthly bounds”
So went the stops on my tour of the universe
Sat on the same hill with dad a while later, bro left behind,
I was engulfed with a silence he and I never encountered
The truths and laughs we shared that pulled the night
Close to hand seemed replaced by proof of our insignificance
Dad said not one word in dialogue, just a mantra, a missive from
A realm of gorgeous solipsism “Every person’s a world of their own.
The world is nothing but something to conquer and control,
No different from ourselves, and that’s why I tell you
Every person’s a world of their own, sunshine,”
He all-but cried, with star-yoking pride and the tear
Of a vision of ambition fulfilled both in his eye

He don’t know
Will never know
Couldn’t know
I just want to make jelly out of the stars

“Kiddo,” “Yes bro?” “Enough stargazing,
Time for a show of wit charblazing;
Freestyle for me”
‘I’ll dress you in that pewterous shine
True and luminous I intuited while red shoe’ing
Out of the uterus
Her soul opens to mine to mate
The dead weight of her ex abating
Words lurk behind my tongue waiting
So I can get all panegyrical unequivocal
Redeem those so vocal but not lyrical.’
“Very good, you’d leave llamas pack n Dalai proud,” he said
Massaging his wrists like from chains they’d just been allowed
“To rap the way you rap, think the way you think,
And give the way you give, is to be free”
My eyes wonderpaneled at these ideas as they took in too
His tender caress of those wrists, which he was fond of
Thrusting up, insisting “See these severed hands I wear round
My wrists, cut from a past that would not let go!”
Before those impressions, nutcrackers of my incomprehension 
Yielded rank to as sad a thing as I’d ever say
“If we’re born free,” I asked this figure brotherly,
“Why does it hardly ever feel that way?”

I Just Want to Make Jelly Of the Stars

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars and Alex North, featuring piano by Bill Evans and keyboards by Herbie Hancock

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I was reading in the March of Time
A story that looked more than a little like mine
It captured my nascence in the shadow of wealth
Though not the abuse, or profusions of bruising from the belts
It spoke of how by the time I was 1 and 9 I’d graduated
Once less than thrice, but not how I’d also almost died twice
Then a passage it adored, how I took none
Of my magnate folks’ money, yet made a whole lot more
It told of material success, but not how I set off untold revolutions
Disguised in flesh, which took up whole souls’ purchase without incurring
Something so apparent as a minor disturbance,
Changed his society for no price higher than mild annoyance
In the one paper full of experts, and eager commentariat
An esteem for better news, an even-handedness known to few,
It was a not believable story; and, in being so, accurate and true
Believable? I never have been

Oh you will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this

Every morning in the mirror I see
The guy who tried to murder me
Unsuccessfully, thankful are we both
That I had too much HP, and since then we
Have struck up a friendship of moving address
In a tame West; he alone knows all the secrets
Of who I was at the time we met, that my body
Then was my shadow, and my shadow the real me.
At least, thanks to him, I knew I was capable of action,
Of imposing myself upon the world, if only to curtail
Forever possibility of the same.
I don’t dwell in those Badlands, but lord knows I sent
A lot of thought miners into that memory’s thorny pass
From the rock came resplendent questions hewed: 
To escape the fate that made you, and shape your
Own nature: you don’t have to do this alone, or do you?
And why are the good who are also strong so few?

You will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this
The story is the story of the good guy
And what he was made and betrayed by

There’s an awful lot the lens of that profile couldn’t help you see
Like the expression my brother’s ghost carved in the moon and
Which shines down on our mutual enemies; the cynical, deceitful,
The unmerciful virtuous, the deaf to reason, and broccoli.
Like the love, scarred, pierced beyond belief, that still drives me
Like the untameable mare of unthinkable truth I ride freely
Easy do we forget the full expansive glory of our story
So, at ease the March of Time, let me tell you mine
You may not like what I have to say
And find you like me anyway
At first the story of the good guy seems
Like you’re gaining in everyone’s esteem for gallantly walking green fields
Then all of a sudden boys of bones emerge from below 
To run through you, though they look like you do
You begin to recognise the villainy of friends
Soon you’re pitching through a hell of tortures oddly specific and unheard of
Which you’ll think not even the staunchest villain’d deserve
All this to create a good that will subject to all that evil throw at it
And not lose its nerve and cry
“Who’d ever want to be the good guy?”
The goods you pretend to will fall under wheel on our way
And rot in your renewed sight of them will many of the comforting beliefs you hold dear
If you take up rein and ride through the story with me here
How good is formed: the last tale anyone ever wants to hear

“A tree that would try to hide what it is
In the end will bear its fruit”, quoted on
The back pages of the March of Time
It prints your tale, it prints mine
“If we can learn from each other
A little more we’ll live forever”
Rich philosophies run in
This ink

I Was Reading in the March of Time

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars.

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

He was my hero, though I took my sweet
Time to realise that; and he likewise that
My appearance on the scene was not what caused
Our parents fail to buy him a Happy Meal
Or love him back; aged three,
I remember looking at big bro with a look flavoured with
My first taste of the sherbet of condescension.
As he was absurded and upbraided by dad n mum,
I thought he looked like our postman, chained to his timetable,
Unable to escape it by rejecting its convenor,
No matter how blazingly evident his discontent.
Dripping tears, hopping on the spot, too humiliated
To do what he was told, too humiliated to not.
Seemed they despised him, would’ve coruscated him
As much had he revolted as given his obedience
His wit, his love, his patience would make him my hero then,
But the extent of his transformation made him my hero since

He was my hero
(There’s something about the way a hero breathes the air
I guess we’re gonna have to make one out of your somehow)
With love he stood defiant
My hero
How I wish that I could do
What he could do

Some selections from my brother’s little book of maxims
“A real insight’s as cold and smooth as gelato”
“No healthier culture than the pardo”
“There’s nothing scarier than the good guy, a good guy, a real good guy”

My bro – and everyone should know someone who
Does the same – loved to express himself
Through metaphors most oblique; a day ago 
I found the last one he screeted in an old filo-folio 
“Where I’m from, the rarest, greatest and only
Crimes are to be a heretic or a traitor
Of course I accrued the family’s stupor
Having done enough to be called both.”
He counselled me “You should always be yourself,
But only at certain times,” an insight probably
Derived from his extraordinary transformation; from
Urchin abused to urbane, merciful being of sane, retrieved grace.
When I’d vent red-faced about the fam he’d calmly say
“We are but posh monkeys, uncultured but with the stick
But don’t settle for anger, which makes the weak the sick, you see
If we will face only the misery and tragedy,
Not that much bigger beastie of onward hope,
Then we are but heroes in search of a defeat.
Write all these things down, bro,
You will understand them when you’re older,
Including those whose meaning evades me.”
Now as the insights mobilise and metastasise before
My eyes now realised, new mysteries I find have since risen
To take their place.

“That’s what music and lyrics truly are,
Two heroes pissing side by side
Like all great lovers, one day they will talk
And it will be for the last time.
Look at me, barely out my teens,” he said,
“And already I’m becoming afraid
Of how much I can identify
With this music; afraid I will fall
Asleep to it and wake up seven years
On, and the stars and the grass will be gone”
We stopped going up the mount after a while
I remember the last time, after we spoke of
Embossing flinging affluent malice and
Palestrina making a shack a palace, he told me
Of a song, “You know the one,” he said,
“That gossamer bark, steady as bread and
Bold as their secrets being offered up by the dead.
It’s the spectacle of a man walking live 
Across the threshold of the afterlife, 
Remaining alive to parse the entry to paradise
With his human faculties until his short term 
Of permission expires, and he must die 
To become of the paradise he has glimpsed.”

Heroes (in Search of a Defeat)

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

One Eye of Blue

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I was born in Ghetto’s Landing, that’s to say
The place to which the poor page upon receipt of their first wage
That weighs enough to make the migration
Where they transcend one prejudice
And often step right into the next one
Prejudice which to many provides their bar, to keep
Successive generations harboured at that degree, but which
Leads an intellect like my daddy’s, to the treasure
Of exploiter and exploitee
Dad had a genius for finding the weakness
In people; on every insecurity a plantation, 
Believed there was nothing so immortal as vice
That fortune founded better on no other foundation
And a Pharisee ‘gainst contrary prophecy, saying here was a world
That would never end before the middle classes to whom he sold sing

“I’m so sick of the things my money can bring
My monarchs don’t mean a thing”
And the hustlers cry
“Money I don’t have is the best kind”

But the man to cause me first distrust the coin
Was not dad, but his vivaciously rapacious brother,
Dubbed himself the artist’s model Jew,
Deducted a ducat of his pocket, flicked me two.
Uncle’s was obvious eff-oo-ach-you money, make-sexy-
The-Black-Paintings-of-my-soul money, make-mollified-
Being-overtaken-in-success-by-little-brother-and-
His-pursuit-of-my-wild-bride-money,
So thick with prejudice he would summon the snow
Just so that a darker night would be recast paler white
Unrivalled in what dad would tell me was man’s
Primary instrument of survival – the power to despise
Mean, they were, mean like only those who believe that
The only way to get all they ever wanted is to take it,
And it took me quite a while to completely cleanse myself
Of the desire to be, even a little bit, just like them

Having been disinherited by my parents
I did better than they ever did, and not just
For the fact that I now own a giraffe basketball team
Who, come to that, are second best in their one team league, see
Perhaps because I had the good ill-fortune to be raised in such a way
I came to distrust money, to hate a buck used for nothing sweet or right,
And because I grew up where the stuff was by the by and by
I was remarkably young and spry when first I had the opportunity
To grow sick of everything my money can buy
Because it was used to fill the absence,
Wetted with milk and stuffed in my mouth to stifle a cry; 
Because it gave me every precious metal,
Gated all hope beyond nascence, and bid my brother die, quick grew I
Sick of everything my fine money can buy, everything,
The dollars and the monarchs and the yen
Sick of everything my fine money can buy, everything,
The dollars and the monarchs and the yen
Everything, everything, everything
My money can buy
Everything, everything, everything,
Moola mia, moola mia

Everything My Money Can Buy

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

And here two babes who found each other in the bulrushes
Who didn’t make it out of the hood
But got kicked out, took off right
For the patch of old Milne country wood where she told him
She’d preferred be proposed to,
The ring in his pocket fashioned by the topsy turvy
Perversions of the rotary kiln of a world that won’t stop turning,
Improbably formed, improbably strong, improbably determined
To make forever safe, loved and secure that kept within
As Elsheimer paints the night, having dispatched five rounds of
Lie-n-Pinocchio, she told me she had something to show me
(Me noticing all the while we’d left the car in drive the entire time)
I smote the thought she might embarrass my marriage proposal
With a proposal of her own, when she strummed up her brother’s tune
“Some people dislike such music,” she said
“But it’s better than it sounds”

My love, we’ll love by a single rule:
‘Who loves me half loves me none’
We’ll be the text that they teach to lovers in school
To keep them from just loving love

We were discussing then the Italian styling
Of this romantic violence, and that
This country’s values move too fast
Killing anything idling; she sang again,
Her tenor whose tone roisters like Rolls Royces,
I always knew weeping ripens the voice , here conclusive proof
Your song lured me away, into the vault of collective
Memory where it must’ve been forged; I thought of
Your folks, prone to overlook much, taken
In by the spectacle of their daughter, the rich bride, 
The inheritance I believe I shall reject
No closer to either of your remote surmise
My mind a pleasured isle that thought of nothing for perhaps
The very first time was occupied by surprise when you said
“One thing on my list: tell me what in mention of family,
Or future, sees you take on every time the aspect assumed by
A horse, startled, falling from a cliff;” witty she, bold and open-hearted,
I realised that I was less ready than ever to tell; and that this no longer mattered
She burred, and flicked her eyes, so I’d infer she’d prefer
Us step inside for my inner life to alight to light to be assized

In these wood do secrets glow
Just as not to let their slightness show
In the dark, in the light
Having divulged, I expect I might
Soon find that I’m calling through the night
“Come back, come back”

“Alright, my word, and my reduction to it,
The foulest of all things I intuit, is that
I may be doomed to inherit custody of
My family’s funfair of vice against my will;
That I may turn indifferent my child’s interests,
Culture their fear for my amusement,
Raise them as weapons against one another
And make my joy in withholding plain; 
And that this is cargo I cannot disburse, whatever
Pedigree of pirate good it attracts, 
And that, however much I appropriate, emulate
My dead brother’s tact, his will, his belief in man the
Magnate of optimism and the required fierceness of good,
He still isn’t coming back.”
As I shivered, reduced only to my word, moonlight
Rivering through those tiny windows, she
Made the closening moon’s glow into a ring
And proposed she turn me into a bat-shaped husband thing.
That’s appropriate timing, I said,
That’s a thousand clouds their thunder nicked,
That’s excess most wretched I never expected.
“Yes,” she grinned, “Daddy raised a jackass .”

"Daddy Raised a Jackass"

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

How might one compare me to a winter’s day?
Ossian, Nookie, Venus; assemble, let’s count the ways
(Venus) Mars you’re plastered, pissed!
Oh yeah, if I were plastered could I do this?
Could I do the moments while they do the seconds?
Stealin daylights like the sun collects em?
Make the game over as if this shit were Tekken?
Sip from the mainstream then make it change direction
My frost on the windscreen you look through coats
The world in the magic and realism of which it’s really mixed
Wanted to live and love higher so I became pariah
What was once uneasy green became the colour of the pariahtine
You are the voice of this generation
I am its stunned silencing
Escaped the premises of the poor and the psychoses of the poor
(Venus) Are you living? 
Yeah I’m living for four

(Ossian)
I’m putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coke on my cocoa
Putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coco, cocoa, riiiiight?
All the people have not and the banks are open
And I’ll have duffed up n diamond cuffed anyone who scuffs my seal pups
I pull a book down, I could copy the pages
But I can’t read, so long as the banks are open
I’ve been told my eyes are like mines of Leone diamonds
And they’re all fucking mine, they’re all fucking mine
The snow, could make romantic even the thought
Of John Candie’s dick
The same shade as my ivory 
 'Make Poverty History' wristband
I can’t move, I can work, I’m a stooge
Of the proven worth but, but, but
I could sell a doctorate to a doctor I bought
For a quid for 10p and still make a profit
The beauty I can’t have is the only one I want
Fuck it, fairness is the colour of coca-coca riiiight?

Here do I sit down
Just to be shown how
To reconcile the many sides of me

Is there a place for a darker instinct
I want what I want what I want what I want
Will you higher minds bless this trade deal with your imprint?
Your every better judgement will I haunt
With an empire on which the sun don’t rise?
Gonna help you build that paunch
On whose hills fall the snows of the coca coca
I want what I want what I want what I want
Though by reason I’m frequently slavified,
I can’t be killed, I cannot die
And other departments of mind still loft my ensign
Whenever they take pleasure in pursuits more fine
I brighten your eyes with the light of life,
And lead the best man you know to leave his wife
Fuck the world however it appears
And when it ends I want coke, I want ice cream

You may be reading in the March of Time
The stories of the three men here, who
Bear nothing in common but a bodily lair
And shared, mysterious visions of 
Elysium that I planted to conduct and
Unite them there.
I’m the voice you hate, it’s the voice that always
Implores you wait, for a second contemplate, moderate
That might make the energies of the id, the charm of
The world-turned face, and the innate idea singly confederate
How well I do my job will determine if you are
A human mastered and complex or just a fucking mess
In conflict they make a multitude of a man into a half of one
Purposed in the same direction they make a one-man posse cut
Without many souls within, brokered at times
To benign conflict, we can greet no great feat,
Nor be an army of one when there’s an urgent war to win,
But without mastery of self we are just mobile societies,
We’ll never move among the spirits we contain
Nor meet the best among them

Chocaine

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

Amdist many could-be Platos, waiting and plating
Do I get the terms of my future mating in contemplated evil’s face
The heroes of the past rounded me in Fortnum n Mason’s
During mine and ma’s annual mother-and-son Fortnum-Mason date
She carried such wares as contorted her bag
Into the visage of a face screaming for release
From the multitudes in it to be reconciled
A Guccian shorthand for all those whom those Gs beguiled
I wore the same velvet blazer I wore when she inaugurated this
Tradition after my visit to the fiend in prison,
And then, as now, she eyed the tea selection with undivided
Attention, spoke not a word, didn’t even care enough to look up
In expectant silence at the spectacle of my coming to terms

When the past locks you 
Deep in negotiation 
It often seems that the 
Leverage is its to hold 
But each time with a sneer and a laugh
We come to terms
We’ve come to terms, we have

Under this little creatural instrumental which ma thought,
As she always does, must be by the Beatles, she asked
“Wouldn’t you agree sunshine, after coarse deeds and words,
“That there’s nothing like a laugh to come to terms?”
I smiled, nodded a weighty ‘Aye’, thinking of the time
Dad did just that when I said I’d been ideating suicide.
Told her the news, mentioned I’d been offered the chance to speak
About that shooting on TV, but not that I was planning to marry
In this bygone’s alley I took her hands, “Let me ask you,
Why is it that every time we find ourselves here, whence I want
To tell you the story of your living son the good guy, to describe
That bloody wonder, I can only fixate on the shields we locked 
Against one another, the hate that once gave me slovenly body, 
And on slights and upsets goneby, so emboldened by your presence, 
That flee for their lives when elsewise in my sight?” 
Her eyes trembled with sentiment
And just when I thought I at last had her in a position
Where she would try to answer this unanswerable question
The tea arrived

This time I pressed for an answer, but gazing round she sighed,
 “Look at our world, these progressives
Who are in fact profoundly conservative; these idle rich
These milk teas, and we, mother and son mired in enmity, we;
Shamed in industry and culture by the poor and migranty”
“Not often you give strangers the benefit of your humanising
Instinct ma, to hear you do so is grand”
“Maybe what you don’t understand,”
She said “Is that the terror of that return,
If it was not what knighted you or your mother or mother’s mother
Remains latent in your bones,
In your genetic code mulls a dormant
Cry ‘I will not go back there!’
People hate what they fear they may become, and
Sure antipathate against what they fear they may become again;
That’s what I think when I look
At the poor migrant mother and her child,”
She said, ordering again from the Fortnum carte
As much pierscribed in her mind as touch of mother mild

We've Come to Terms, We Have

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics coming soon to Genius.com

(Do You Know the) Cherub's House Address?

cover art is the original art
@1812922 x @drip-133

show some love to NEOTIC:
https://youtu.be/ZJngStpPzYU?t=26m37s

bine x drip-133 ♒ PIANO WIRE

RIGABAE - Windows95 美しい STARTUP

all of the happiness and love that was going through all the Penguins even though they knew everything was going to come to a close... But even so those Penguins were happy, this was many people's childhood's and seeing it go like that could bring anybody into tears. I can say that it's a lot more than just some PC game it's a life it's Happiness

@Business Casual

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Arctic Circuitry

Crystalline Surf

福原希己江 - 想い想われ

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Mars

Lyrics Reproduced by the Artist:

Lana, whose will held not her day’s disease;
Maria too; who, with bent benediction
And soul glued, for cheaper
For good and for better,
With palms as their turtle feathers
Flew away

“Laissez un petit paix pour me”
This Caixenese petitions God in broken French,
“Don’t let my spirit be roosted on waste,
Let my spirit migrate and please you new ways.

May I return Frelimo strong and Descartes wise
And if there is a war I’ll bring it home.”

Lana, whose will held not her day’s disease;
Maria too, who, with bent benediction
And soul glued, touched one hand to the fortune
She’d scorned, and to what it had protected her from;
To neither turned her back.

I’d kiss the ground she walked on,
If she only lived in a cleaner neighbourhood.
She was the author of her world
Like most authors never wrote
And like all authors wished for something
Better for her subject.

Maybe I’m a fool
Maybe that played a part
Maybe now I’ll come to know anew,
And be a better kind of fool.

Mars Lives

Lana Dolorosa

"Like a Dostoyevsky novel you can dance to..."

Baroque-hop, London blend

^)^

We've Come to Terms, We Have

Marsy Mars

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