1. |
FCA (Radio Edit)
04:13
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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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2. |
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eloquent, but rarely outspoken,
she commands my attention with her name's subtle mention.
I'm stealing glances from behind rows of empty
crystal parapets and stale cigarettes.
she holds all the cards and she knows it too.
the queen to my rook.
a clouded judgment, an inebriated stupor.
I swore she read me like a book.
she took my hand, she stole my breath,
she stole me away.
staring into headlights, unblinking.
hopelessness running through her veins.
another day, another nosebleed.
headaches and a fistful of pills.
numbers blur, people melt away.
pupils seared by the lights.
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3. |
FCA (Acoustic)
05:13
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|
||
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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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4. |
Citizen
04:55
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a country that stagnates and hinders its own progress.
censoring dissent while executing innocents.
the impetuous infantry play their little war games,
obeying their orders like dogs, beyond indoctrinated.
collecting witness statements for crimes they never solve.
protecting elites in power through violence.
perverting social order with billy clubs and riot shields.
their systems of oppression won’t save us.
abolish the bastards, their gentrifying entities,
destroying the fabrics upheld by our communities.
and their constitution, invincible yet obsolete;
it’s not enough to rewrite it, so let’s annihilate it.
we cannot implement our justice when they hide behind their badges,
but we can annul their presence with guillotines.
reform is a useless palliative for silencing the discourse.
channeling Hammurabi; an eye for an eye.
there’s no potential,
no cause to amend.
the administration
must be overthrown.
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5. |
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6. |
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Spite House Brooklyn, New York
⳦ ⳧
o͞ |Ⲵ.᷿᷿᷿L𝖞▞▙ⲡ の ♳
𝕿▘ ཁྐྵ ▛▚ ཎ༪ ▚ ༗྿⁍⁞ Ͱ҉̅҉̅҉̅҉̅҉̅Ͱ҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈̟҈
ه҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈̿҈
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