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lirik lagu pawn in the game, pt. 1 – sole

oh, you like libraries and a boring sky
with a 50’s radio voice boring into your skull?
it’s boring in your skull, waiting to wake up
as someone else. it’s hard to be yourself; whoever that is today
i know mother told you you could be an actual star
sp-ce isn’t for you: there’s not enough windows
if we governed ourselves, we’d have to stop fighting
or focus on breeding, or focus on living
up in this tree is where i lick my wounds
before they can happen:
keep the skin raw waiting for vampires to happen
if you happen to be listening
at night, i hear voices and fight with words on a barren landscape
where anything outside of this is a barren landscape
hence the word bar
drink yourself happy and vomit to sleep
better don’t mind the mold in the bathroom
it means it’s being loved and someone’s saving our urine
for when we snort up the ocean
addicted to seaweed, practicing abortions
missing something or missing nothing;
ugly people don’t fall in love
they tolerate life ’til ash when in an urn sprinkled in a back cove
where i grew up
now i’m a machine hating other machines
i say it with a hotel pen, watch it dissolve like a hotel movie
learning it all through a lack of understanding
pacing myself, filling in the blanks
and you strive to be political
like buying a card somehow makes you a member
i pick my fights the way i pick my friends:
if you f-ck with me, come get a pyrric victory
i’ll show you why i have nothing; you can too
this isn’t a threat, i’m sharing my list with you, f-ck the internet
burrow the past, i’m a product of 70’s
i never wanted to be social;
judged through the eye of a 40 oz.,
of a coffee; my coffin awaits

i tell her: “hum quietly and grant the occasional hallucination.”
everything is now
[?]
with every last footstep, ravenous lands make you look homely
wear forever this sh-t-eating grin
it’s the best chance for survival while you wait to feel lucky
there’s no gambling involved
don’t be a patient, hide from the pageant
then from the fragrance of the rotten breath of a middle school teacher;
no use for science, it takes the life out of everything (let them go)
let them think themselves to sleep themselves together
until they all blow over

all the king’s dead money recycled themes
themselves to sleep under fantastic clocks
that go cold in the night. warm bodies huddle
cold bodies landfill under fancy restaurants;
the cold stay cold and have no use for flowers
the warm pretend to be lovers ’til they’re mothers and fathers
the cold need chemicals and can’t hide, not even in the dark
where things come into light
where i wear a warm body around my neck
and wait quietly for the world to end
neither warm nor cold, just a bedpan for both
it was nothing, actually, it was nothing
actually, it was nothing…

- sole

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