Rarities

Poison Root (Demo)

Julie: Flutter

Rag Doll

Huge Fucking Alex G Comp

Zuicide

Panchiko - Stuck - Asuka Slag

my bloody valentine

Jesus Bleeds Nicotine - Iris Adam

Boris puts whiskey on the side and thinks he'll call it a day. 
His Rupert the Bear pyjamas have seen much better days. 
There's a shit stain on the front because he's worn them both ways.
He stares into the void. 
He takes another line. 
And writes the words; hands, face, space.

Morning comes. 
Check the news to see if covid's gone away.
His bloody nightmare looks like it is here now to stay.
His suit is stained from the stew Carrie made yesterday. 
He takes another line. 
His hair is out of line. 
He writes the words; hands, face, space.

You all must be blind.
To keep saying, "He's doing the best he can."
You all must be blind.
To keep saying, "He's doing the best he can."

You all must be blind.
To keep saying, "He's doing the best he can."
You all must be blind.
To keep saying, "He's doing the best he can."

I'm not aware of the rules. 
They change them three times a day. 
Old people sit at the park. 
Telling you to stay away.
Take some pictures and post them. 
Saying, "How's this okay?"
We're all just looking for... 
We're all just looking for... 
We're all just looking for ways... out. 


Boris's Nightmare

nothin funny

From grassy squares to the undergound
Suburban explosion a queen is crowned
down country lanes with an e type sound
white lady assassin to whom I'm bound

Where were you my dear on that empty street
potempkin houses with no place to meet
abandoned weapons
water coloured sweet
cynaide scented candles, our lovers final treat.

Lyrics: Kieran Flynn
Performed and arranged by Richard Hall

Assassin Assassin

and i wake up, and im numb,
but i think its fine cause im so young

and i sat on my bed, with a gun in my mouth,
but then i changed my mind because i wanted to get high
and i sit on my bed, and i look at my sheets
and i look at my friends, and i wonder what’s the meaning of it all

cause i sit in my room, and i play on my phone (of it all, of it all) and i go make good grades, and then i come home,

and i talk to a girl, and i talk to my friends, but that shit never lasts, no cause everything ends.

We are the music makers. We are the dreamers of dreams.





Boris's Nightmare

SpukSchreibMaschine

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