1. |
Every Conversation
01:40
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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
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2. |
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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
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3. |
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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.
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4. |
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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
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5. |
An Escape
03:18
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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
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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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