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An Escape

by The Immoderate Past

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1.
Woke up Shook head It was already late so I stayed in bed There is rain on my glasses and smeared lipstick on my cheek Berlin is on my lips Been like this for a week Hotels, meals in the park Starlight left a spark I can still taste the taste of last night on my lips But then you say that you're not happy anywhere, anymore, anyway And so you say "Yeah, whatever, let's call it a day" But it doesn't matter because in the rain every conversation feels the same
2.
Is it a bout of small-town melancholy? Or just another round of insomnia blues? The feeling always with me, is it insanity? Or is it just a momentary ooze of booze? I float off in a dream when I'm awake And then I sleepwalk through the day Nothing is risked, nothing is at stake All was possible but I let it slip away Stars are moving on like instrumentation The night sends verse down from above Flippant phrases lead to interpretation They're all starting to make sense now In spite of having never known true passion I quote Novalis and leave my heart stone-dry Clogging sensation with absinthe and dark fashion Words forming into hymns that make me cry
3.
The status-income disequilibrium of lower castes and lesser evils: technology is the new social delirium. Meritocracy; now we need the geek. Arts, culture, economy, politics – are we experimental and innovative? Progress and prosperity our perceived vanguard. Are we just weird or out-of-place? Cost-benefit analyse the now and postpone important decisions. Take a stand on everything, and leave it all at the table. What is desire and what is need? What is control and comfort zones? Reality slips away in lost time. Are we the crowd or the ashamed ones? This is just a job, I only sign papers. Entertainment, you say? The language of the masses. No, I'm not really hungry, thank you. Inadequate, inane little details. Nothing really hurts me anymore. Lacking and poor, the insane prevail. Nothing hurts me any more than this. Doubt ignorance; throw it out. Shortcomings are off the scale. Misgivings only for the devout. Once stout, now sculptures are fragile and pale. Melancholic bohemian bourgeoisie, the men of the future and their TV ideals. Frontiers without fixed guarantee – they framed their bliss in cold steel. Drowned in proletarian paranoia, the government halls filled with greed. In dire need of a purging perestroika are we, the leaders of the free. Creative boredom fed through I.V.; stoned lazy, there's nothing to see. Swept up in decrees and debris, I want to crawl back to the sea. Drag me down.
4.
Project myself out of the corner and into the crowd Cut my hair. Talk about books. Grow tired. Don't really care Important stuff is happening. Leave me the fuck alone Never reach the realm, touch the borders of this colony The lengths people go to, to appear friendly Excessive lies escape a solitary domain Go away before I tear the place down Friday night, get pissed. Saturday doesn't exist Sunday evening gives me rest. Monday morning, get dressed Don't mean anything to anyone. Mean everything to everyone Urban bitterness imprisoned in old, torn shadows Worn out papers of trash and words without any real weight Stained eyes behind curtains, shattered view upon the unfocused Too frail to zoom, lock myself in. Never leave this room Emotions polarised by boring and tedious rhetoric Devoid of colour. Comfort versus the erotic. A discontented heretic Inconclusive and bleak, it's been a still-going week Unsupportive and wrong – I am still going strong Swallow another pill, shallow and still Don't move, don't react. Enact, and then disappear Some of the things you say are actually quite hurtful Some of the things you do you shouldn't really have done Pretentious presumptions are met by preemptive protests Eclectic non-erratic, my choices are direct. Judgement passes by Everything is discarded on this first day of the rest of my life Pronounce all letters and words. Spot the difference It is all in the deliverance. Nothing is given away for free Look to old films to illustrate what's missing now Read old books because nothing new excites me I can only hint at changes. I can only suggest, nothing is said See through the past to understand the present Stay indoors with poetry, shun the outside by turning it upside-down Prolong the illusion. Stay in bed. Be humble, be obedient, be afraid
5.
An Escape 03:18
An escape from reality in a fog of mystery and body language, drunk, once more, on Irish coffee The world has yet again forgotten itself I can't hear you, I can't hear what you're saying but I still look at you, honest and interested You smile, so I must've done something right I know I've not said anything wrong as I've really not said anything at all And maybe that was why you left I write down some words on a piece of paper, making up things, speaking in my head the words that you throw around, walking around The bass bumbles Drums beat Guitar screams Singer mumbles "This is the next song" It sounds like the one before, though Guitar is out of tune and I'm beat I feel the urge to light a cigarette but I don't smoke So I stand, and I leave the party It's past midnight and I write poems on the way home This is yesterday And this is me, losing myself in a lost world

about

An escape from reality in a fog of mystery and body language.

Spoken word poetry, guitars, beats and dreams.

credits

released July 23, 2017

Poetry by Hans Christian Munch Andersen
set to music by Søren Søndberg.
Recorded, mixed and mastered by Søren Søndberg
in Copenhagen 2017.
Cover photos by Hans Christian Munch Andersen.

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The Immoderate Past Denmark

A band, but then again not really. Dreamy indie rock with weird ideas and poetic songwriting coupled with a lot of guitars and old drum machines. Science fiction from the future about the past.

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