“It’s just the door”
From my forthcoming solo album (I promise, it is close now!)
Gloriously, I came up with the music on one day, wrote the words on another, and recorded on a third. Boom. Love that!
I’m using the C# minor scale, I think, played on my “A-E-B-F#-C#-whatever” tuning. ‘whatever’ is dictated by how much I dare tighten these strings. The ‘whatever’ I have on there right now is “C# (yes, another)-E” (i.e., not brave), and the riffs I’m playing are composed of those notes with G# (the drawn-out chord), and then D, and F peppered in, which give the song most of its melodic power because they are outside the scale.
Words:
I'm shown my birth and death simultaneously.
I draw from an infinite muse,
I'm on a tapped phone call to God.
We talk of ancient alchemy,
of being frozen in place by expectation.
But those sunglasses seem to have no eyes behind them.
He wants to bury me here in the sky, atomized, beyond repair.
Burned up, inside flattening,
and then nothing.
There's no smoke,
or reimagining.
Not a bloodstained cuff,
no loss of vividness.
I'm only frozen in place,
staring at the door to altered states.
Just the door.
I became an expert on life,
a panel judge of your experiences.
I offer platitudes and stereotypes,
In my sad departed flight.
On winter's salted wings,
as stale metaphors, similes, and idioms,
hurtle toward low ceilings.
My mouth, a dump, worn-out, an assault, bereft of evocative power, a mass of lies.
I'll use my tired toddler talent contest emotions,
to sift out ‘The Best’.
I'm your friendly techtalitarian egolibertarian
dead mess,
of hatred and substances,
paranoia, and effort.
Narrating my needs for no specific listeners.
About being somebody's prisoner.
About weakness and surrender.
About how I'm suffering’s narrator,
This species’ savior,
or just a tired metaphor,
my own worst tormentor.
Just translate my life into data.
