"The Robots Know Voodoo"

All your missed notes,
Your words never writ down,
Are the purest poetry,
And the loudest sounds.
So must we dance,
All with pebble in shoe?
Let the people become gods!
Let robots learn voodoo—!


6:
Thanks & apologies to Eli for 1st lyric
Thanks to Hector for production assistance
Thanks to Paul for drums

Featuring my loud annoying lovebird on 2

All else by yours truly

6 Hours Of Sleep

BikeVeinsAesthetic

She Painted Flowers

"Slow Burn Love Letter"

Hello, my enemies! Hello, my friends!

It wasn’t on purpose, but it sure wasn't by accident either. No act of god. I wrote these anthems to make you feel something—maybe something terrible. I wanted to make you cry. Now I'm not sure what I want. See, there is an evil in all of us, some degree of malice, & truly I think that's beautiful. Maybe imperfection, without direction, can burn like an angry Sun, keep us all warm.

But it all went wrong, we overflowed—we all know exactly when. (Don't say it out loud. They'll hear.) We can't reason with dictators & all their godless idiot friends; call upon the fists of Saitama & Jiren; bash in their skulls, snap their spines in two, kill every king. And don’t stop until we are baptized in royal blood, every last one of us.

Indulgence, fear, & divinity: nevermore. Still, once the maze was torn down, the Minotaur stood dumbfounded. (Unexpected dread alongside hope... might as well lean into the fire. We'll figure it out tomorrow.) This is the manifesto fueled by Mountain Dew, also: angst, anxiety, aggression, alliteration, apathy, altruism, anything at all, & an avid anime addiction. It’s homage to music you don't dance or sing along to. These 7 will be lost to the tubes-in-series, with all else: humanity's wisdom & achievements, our wonders, our memes, likes, tweets, comments: a library of Alexandria burning, but at least there's ingredients for s'mores.

To be glanced at once, maybe less; then what? Cast off indifferently. The bell curve majority is a fickle beast. Impatience? Absolutely, these songs are amateur nonsense & basically I'm garbage. In a society well-lived, shock value became the norm; genuine notion, the pariah. All I want is enough validation to warrant buying the full version of PitchLab, is that asking so much? But to ironically undermine myself, to deceive you my pride, to say "Don't bother," as a ploy for you to listen—my dude, that's just some reverse-psychology, predictably self-deprecating b.s., & I want to be on that next-level post-irony b.s., because ya boy got student loans to pay... so these calluses, upon my fingertips, may as well be justified.

Anon will have their fun, then they too will forgive & forget, screw what the scripture says. But hopefully by 3 or 4, there's an understanding—it's just an honest attempt, under financial & temporal limits. Yeah I know it's a lot of alto sax, OK? Proof of concept at best. Haters will say 2 & 1 should be switched around. At the very least, obviously 4 is a banger; we can agree on that, right? And if you won't boogie down 6 minutes into 5, then there's simply no hope left.

So if you've read this far & you're already sick of it, sorry, but I won't apologize. On most days the ocean is beauty; on others, just static noise. Sunsets are as vibrant as the pollution.

The singularity will be kind. The next is more important. When the robot—hesitant yet finally, after waiting for so long—when this machine we've created together perfects its virtual voodoo ritual redo—them, us, me, you, for the first time we'll see it measure, quantify, successfully repeat, replicate, reincarnate—goddamnit, I burned a marshmallow. The chocolate's melted. But the fire is colorful & strangely comforting.

Thank you for listening.

The Robot Knows Voodoo