Lyrics
Coma
She's dead.
The void in my life is ineffectual. As the last trappings of her oxygen spin their
electrons in my direction, I can only think of violets, tulips, and corpses. Rhymes
and hooks can't expose my soul. Only truth has the power to decay my skin and force
a perfect and unending catharsis. But somehow, I know that oak and burgandy carpets
are the only answer.
Death has the power to complicate.
Death has the power to alleviate
Every need you have to exfoliate.
All that's left is your desire to negotiate.
"Knight to C4," she said, and as her fingers lost contact with that black
warrior of imperfect plastic, I realized her capacity for infinite perfection.
I only now wish that she could be trapped here forecer in this undying sleep.
In this state, there is no strife - there is no conflict. I pray this morbid
peace lasts forever.
Death has the power to complicate.
Death has the power to alleviate
Every need you have to exfoliate.
All that's left is your desire to negotiate.
Now she lies in a white room. The walls are eggshell, her bedding is cream,
and her face is mother-of-pearl. The machines keep her alive, now. Circuit
boards and breathing devices have replaced my love. This place will last
forever. In this endless monolithic cycle, there is no life or death. There
is only sleep.
Death has the power to complicate.
Death has the power to alleviate
Every need you have to exfoliate.
All that's left is your desire to negotiate.
Black And White
Spoken like a prophet, the words spill out of the minds of your followers
like a million fountains of youth in urban Los Angeles. But the water slides
off the mirror and flows down the asphault into my mouth.
In the bowling hall trophy case, Theodore Roosevelt dances the can-can with your
hand-grenade. And all the pins sing "Rocket Man, Rocket Man, Rocket Man" as they
join the chorus line. Let's not mince words this generation! Let's crown the
penguin our philosoher-king!
(H3F06)
The Rottweiller Tempest: it all started with an A Minor - C7 chord progression,
and ended with the enigmatic Thuderdome death jitterbug. And as the school-children
play hopscotch with the Grim Reaper, the friendly neighborhood toilet paper
dispenser just laughs and laughs and laughs....
The arcade machines steal my soul 25 cents at a time. The aliens - falling,
forever falling, like the remnants of my life spinning out of control - embody
the spirit, mind, and experience of New Hampshire deserts and Santa Monica
blizzards.
But it's all too, too late for partying once the Death Star begins to charge
its beam. Far too many pilots have died tonight. Our only hope is our penguin
lord.
(H3FO6)
Compulsion
I can't stop hurting you.
H(a)unt
(Instrumental)
Segue
(Instrumental)
Frigid Blvd.
The other night,
on a cool evening in warm Fresno,
I sat in the ravine between
the cinema and the bookstore.
I sat where the shadows
of shallowness and of depth
collide like enemies on the battlefield of attention.
And across the solitary pavement,
I stared at an office supply store,
two computer shops,
a handful of fast food joints,
and a bible store,
sitting alone like a rabbit
among hounds.
And as I sat,
I was approached by the shadow of a girl.
She glowed like the asphault,
and was dull as neon,
and was indistinguishable from the night.
She said something;
I don't remember what.
She was faceless and ageless:
A feminine Oblivion.
And that Night, a part of me began to die.
But the cinema didn't care.