It's them
http://www.blaise.us/storage/files/s_them_(edit).mp3
it's them with their babyfeet, hummingbirds and milky ways...
it's them, horde your sea shells and blow out the big whick...it's them...it's them...
no not your vitamins, or pillow or monicle...
this one's just rightousness half full and logical...
meanwell remote absolute and...nowhere to go
but onward and upward clasp crowns ground the heart...
let transmission commence...hello...goodbye dark...
really i wonder is this all material...
this can't be heaven, the light is too dull....
the first time i spoke must have been...
it doesn't look like an ice sculpture...or does it...
if i really payed attention time would move faster and faster.
landscapes and states of nature would gallop and sink before me
'til all was still and an orchid...one instant...
one rich white bursting orchid
stood in channels and the rivers deep below beauty...
grimace. flee. souls don't need shelter...
native well knowledge radiating through shone...what's scared smell sight
a swimming prizm's gray core...which one will erect a definition
for sheer bliss and set its sembelence sincere and object with pride down gently
before a globe of judge and grudge in open forum...i think...
no one...hundreds of thousands of chattering silver faced monkeys screech
and find them fascinating...
although nowhere to be found on the periphery of...
some generation...huh...i'm not familiar with the term...
boiled to a crack...happy now...
who'll be bird in hand...
i've been mutilated trying...
teaching myself preference, technique and acceptability...
it seems your son is of consumed...
boiled to a crack...
what do you mean there's no oar...
all the rations...
sound the alarm, there must be a stowaway...
a drip, bore, a crack and a trickle, soon the hull gathered its body
and they all drown to meet with a grin, stick and hankerchief
amid the flowering dust of the crossroads...
don't peter out on me now...thrust your fist into the sunset...
texture within the footprints and an end atop the wind...
i feel leaflike...something something to crawl on
sunlit small, a wren beneath the soil presence beyond walls...
art is everywhere...i refuse to know where..i wonder to know where art is...
everywhere i wonder to know where art is...everywhere i wonder...
next time i'm bored, the man's going down
i'll stomp on anyone's brownbag and lunch...when they're not looking.
it's not actually bad rap...i just don't feel it...there i said it...
it's them with their babyfeet, hummingbirds and milky ways...
it's them, horde your sea shells and blow out the big whick...it's them...it's them...
no not your vitamins, or pillow or monicle...
this one's just rightousness half full and logical...
meanwell remote absolute and...nowhere to go
but onward and upward clasp crowns ground the heart...
let transmission commence...hello...goodbye dark...
really i wonder is this all material...
this can't be heaven, the light is too dull....
the first time i spoke must have been...
it doesn't look like an ice sculpture...or does it...
if i really payed attention time would move faster and faster.
landscapes and states of nature would gallop and sink before me
'til all was still and an orchid...one instant...
one rich white bursting orchid
stood in channels and the rivers deep below beauty...
grimace. flee. souls don't need shelter...
native well knowledge radiating through shone...what's scared smell sight
a swimming prizm's gray core...which one will erect a definition
for sheer bliss and set its sembelence sincere and object with pride down gently
before a globe of judge and grudge in open forum...i think...
no one...hundreds of thousands of chattering silver faced monkeys screech
and find them fascinating...
although nowhere to be found on the periphery of...
some generation...huh...i'm not familiar with the term...
boiled to a crack...happy now...
who'll be bird in hand...
i've been mutilated trying...
teaching myself preference, technique and acceptability...
it seems your son is of consumed...
boiled to a crack...
what do you mean there's no oar...
all the rations...
sound the alarm, there must be a stowaway...
a drip, bore, a crack and a trickle, soon the hull gathered its body
and they all drown to meet with a grin, stick and hankerchief
amid the flowering dust of the crossroads...
don't peter out on me now...thrust your fist into the sunset...
texture within the footprints and an end atop the wind...
i feel leaflike...something something to crawl on
sunlit small, a wren beneath the soil presence beyond walls...
art is everywhere...i refuse to know where..i wonder to know where art is...
everywhere i wonder to know where art is...everywhere i wonder...
next time i'm bored, the man's going down
i'll stomp on anyone's brownbag and lunch...when they're not looking.
it's not actually bad rap...i just don't feel it...there i said it...