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Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Would You Stay, 天照 (Amaterasu), Onigiri Time, Decreation, We Will Dismantle Death, Fragile Bodies, Voyeur, FCA, and 28 more.
1. |
Telegenic
05:56
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with your voice of ruination in my ear,
I’ve ravaged everything that I held dear.
a telegenic tragedy appears
to harbor memories that you revere.
we’re gravitating toward oblivion with an elegant sense of haste.
our neuroses forming bonds that we will never escape.
we’ve broken ties with ideology in a halcyon repose.
we’ll break the spell.
this island of desolation and despair.
a grave adorned with flowers and dead air.
we pray that history will disappear,
erasing sentiment that you revere.
we’ll vanish into the havoc built in our previous lifetimes.
annihilation looming closely overhead.
and like the tide receding, like the shoreline washed clean,
we’ll break the spell.
we’re glued to the LCD on the edge of the sea.
we’re trapped in this tiny cell, involuntarily.
the screen displays a faceless man—now he’s watching us sleep.
this cold paranoia grows rather delicately.
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2. |
Shinjuku
04:04
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the mercury illuminates this empty bar with shades of grey.
it feels like home and breaks me in without a word.
in lessons learned, and promises kept.
in lovers left, and fictional depths.
I find myself enshrouded in a neon haze.
don’t try to fight it.
these walls cave in, these walls cave in.
despite the warnings.
this house will fall, this house will fall.
don’t try to fight it.
and from the rubble and the bones,
we will build upon the past.
just like this city and its blood.
we will never grow old.
the air we share intoxicates with alcohol and foreign tongues.
a sense of self, left unfulfilled—undiagnosed.
you take me home, you wear me out.
the purest form of naked doubt.
we watch the park.
the people melt into the haze.
into the haze.
don’t try to fight it.
these walls cave in, these walls cave in.
despite the warnings.
this house will fall, this house will fall.
don’t try to fight it.
these walls cave in, these walls cave in.
this house will fall, this house will fall.
these walls cave in, these walls cave in.
this house will fall, this house will fall, this house will—
and from the rubble and the bones,
we will never grow old.
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3. |
Voyeur
04:44
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while waiting for the light to turn,
confidence oozes out his ears,
like a bloodhound with a sartorial aesthetic.
his senses, more refined now in the shadow of night,
pick up a scent of floral fragrance from a block away.
without a hand to guide him, he stalks his prey
using tactics from the frontlines to feed on lust.
and though he fetishizes violence, he justifies it
with the soldier's logic of a merciless fantasy.
she takes the long way home tonight,
to clear her head of intrusive thoughts,
and visions of the grids laid out on horizons before her eyes.
but when a footstep breaks her trance, she reels around, alert.
just as the teller had warned of flesh predations.
and then his tactless, cold approach interrupts her silence,
under the stuttering lights and sharpened stars.
but when his victim faintly displays her abject terror,
unfettered rage begins to course through his veins.
his dapper elegance
and embattled masculinity
can’t subdue the flaws
that paralyze and confine him.
because he exploits insecurity and loathes rejection,
now retraining his disdain on the doe-eyed damsel,
an apparition cast across the avenue stays his hand;
misogyny won’t spare him from the merciless fantasy.
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4. |
Thimbles
04:40
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and with a tortured sound, harboring her bitterness,
she stumbled down the halls of flickering bulbs
and tore into my chest, leaving not a vein untouched,
caressed my weary bones and listened for the stars.
caked in opulence, she struck a pose amongst the pills.
summer’s static eyes, convincing her to dive...
...into the bottle, so perilously,
where she decayed in perfect limbo
as an amalgamation of approximations.
then I watched her surface imperviously,
wielding thousands of hapless fortunes.
we danced in the thimbles, devouring symbols in stark revolt.
now we’re peeling the skin from our dead hands in this hotel.
engraving our sins into the walls of our own hell.
degenerate scenes engrained in brains, dazed and unwell.
inscribing our names into the walls of our own cells.
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5. |
FCA
04:48
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a Silk Cut glows hanging from her fingertips,
the smoke pouring out of her indulgent lips.
she’s captivating in a sense, but her eyes are contentious.
a hirsute man watches from the avenue.
obsession flows into his field of view.
he’s captivated in a sense, but he’s fatal and anxious.
a nihilist, impressionist, creationist,
endeavored to qualify for a reward.
we only love the thrill of pursuit—we want the promises.
a hollow heart, an empty suit, capitalist,
united in striving for our golden goals.
we only love the lineage—we want the promises.
we construe the outcome as a holy system.
we never asked for much because the system worked for us.
but when taxed with logic and adversity,
the whole rhythm collapses and leaves us all for dead.
a blue screen glows flashing on her fingertips
as she dissects with teeth and broken microchips.
capitalizing in a sense, but she’s haptic and focused.
he panics watching from the windows;
twenty-third floor, tragic little cubicle.
his fealty is unremarkable and forgotten.
an anarchist, a loyalist, surrealist,
conflicted in our eloquent, disparate views.
it’s in our nature to observe—it’s in our suffering.
an egotist, a catholic, capitalist,
united in their failed perceptions of the world.
it’s only fair to be so cruel—it’s in our suffering.
we abandon the program and untether our minds.
the methodology fails us when barely scrutinized.
the administration would leave us for dead.
the abandon’s apparent beyond your selfish head.
the city is a machine, a construct caked in blood,
a network of oppression that contradicts livelihood.
the city is a machine, a construct that runs on flesh,
that feeds upon its victims and engorges its kings.
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6. |
Jezebel
05:10
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subservient roles in the economic skin—
their skirts will accumulate the stain of sin.
the women so lovely in their harlequin dress
could never advance past the role of caress.
hegemony will never come to an end,
as vengeance awaits with an outstretched hand.
the paltry pittance has become the norm.
if only the state would acquiesce to reform.
the steady logic of an ancient penance of establishment.
impinging on the cowering souls of the damned.
the economic inequality perpetuates their plight;
the cycle of inferiority evolves.
the stammering heartbeat of the jezebel
rekindles the lust of this manmade shell.
the women so lovely in their mannequin dress
could never aspire to career success.
their labor is harvested a mile from the ground
from harrowing harlots with a horrible sound.
disquieting judgment with an innocent grave,
abandonment welters in neurotic/erotic waves.
the steady logic of an ancient penance of establishment.
impinging on the cowering souls of the damned.
the economic inequality perpetuates their plight;
the cycle of inferiority evolves.
pillars of salt piercing through the ground
recall the image of forsaken towns
and cities where status was tied to a wage,
where they fed upon money in a petulant rage.
the sexist logic of a system of askew establishment
and rapacious yearning for a profit, untamed.
peculating from the labor of the class marginalized—
this will be remediated in the end.
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7. |
Fentanyl
04:14
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winter wracks the mind into submission,
an oppressive atmosphere we dwell within.
the memories evolve into a burden.
we blot it out with ink and fentanyl.
collapsing in the throes among the C trains.
we claim to hunt for love but can’t recall.
our bodies weren’t built for this exposure,
so we escape into the country for a weekend.
an epilogue,
an artist’s cage.
the numbing fog,
the restless rage.
we watch the hills recede into the ocean,
standing on the empty blackened shores.
the scene that we initially desired
leaves us gasping, clutching for a meaning.
an epilogue (on giving up),
a poet’s page (on getting lost).
the endless smog (among the trees),
the restless rage (and hoary frost).
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8. |
Nimbus
03:00
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if a miscommunication
was all it took to sever our ties,
perhaps we weren’t meant for
this ill-fated soul-baring exercise.
commitment notwithstanding,
I think you ought to reevaluate
whether it’s a wise move
to hold yourself in such a high regard.
you claim to value virtue,
with languages of empathy entwined.
but refuse to weigh the options,
abashing any effort to make amends.
in cogent conjecture,
a manifestation of our faults,
your iron motivation
is like a universe that won’t evolve.
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9. |
Sodium Glow
04:20
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if you regard the sodium glows as acts of god,
then the city reflects the heavens.
wake up—
the sun is bouncing off the brownstones.
this is sacred architecture.
the space between light and shadow,
now illuminated by halos proffering lightbulbs.
playing repentance feels like an excuse to cope.
wasting away in daylight, a misuse of hope.
haunting the dense graffiti that delights our street,
we’re building a system among the ungodly heat.
wake up—
the sun is bouncing off the brownstones.
this is sacred architecture.
let go—
the machinery is here to protect us,
to absolve our summer sin.
the unholy reliquary is built on grids and bones.
the city becomes a prophet/profit for those who will atone.
the streetlights awaken boroughs, rather luminous.
their luster will purify us, remaining numinous.
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10. |
Lemniscate
04:20
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11. |
Rooms
03:27
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hey, I’m so exhausted, dear.
we’ve been worn thin by molly and fear.
in rooms, dimly lit and awash with tears,
these nerves have made it all too clear.
did you think I’d object to the way you’ve caved?
placebos tend to hollow a soul.
but if we protest without the infirmary,
we’ll be consumed by the relapse.
swallow gently,
another anodyne, another anodyne.
rolling slowly,
your fingers serpentine, fingers serpentine.
insufflating,
the paradise we bought, the paradise we sought.
draw us a new line,
we’ll reconnect the dots without a second thought.
did you think I’d object to the way you beg?
our vices tend to bury us all
with filthy weakness and wry codependence.
at least we tried to confine it.
in rooms of mirrors and rusty keys,
inhaling desiccated dreams.
but if we protest without the infirmary,
we’ll be consumed by the relapse.
hey, I’m so exhausted, dear.
we’re held together with coke and fear.
I haven’t slept in two days now.
I guess I’ll take the empty couch.
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12. |
The Birth of the World
06:13
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waking up to birdsong and sunlight in the air,
as you bathe with summer in your hair.
illuminate the rooftops with effervescent tides,
as we dream of pastoral countrysides.
we stand on the platform, enraptured, hand in hand,
then peruse the poetry in Strand.
we wander the MoMA exhibiting Miró:
The Birth of the World, as time begins to flow.
we’ll drink in Prospect all afternoon,
observing moments:
your head on my shoulder,
the glittering crowds and shimmering clouds,
the lives that we lead,
and the lives that we love.
let go of your worldly inhibitions.
watch them spill and shatter on the sidewalk.
timelines, scattered all around in bedroom visions.
fall asleep; the cycle will begin again.
we’ll float through train cars and disappear.
the city watches with impartial pretense.
its drunken embrace will soon reclaim us,
the lives that we lead,
and the lives that we love.
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13. |
Fragile Bodies
01:29
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fragile bodies,
dust floating on a moonbeam.
fragile bodies,
lines coursing through our bloodstreams.
a nocturne in lead and faded gold,
crawling through the night in a stranglehold.
a line of faint light where the city broods,
drooling hot wax on the interludes.
fragile bodies,
our limbs are torn apart.
fragile bodies,
a sinner’s tender grasp on your heart.
on waking, she’s sprawled on the tangled sheets.
in silence I reach out to caress her cheek.
her body crucified by lassitude,
where violence takes shape in the solitude.
fragile bodies,
fill the tunnels underground.
fragile bodies,
and bones that break without a sound.
fragile bodies,
in decomposing, ambiguous dreams.
fragile bodies,
how happy we must have seemed.
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