To see a doorway, two legs tied down. Looking in too scared to enter. The hole, the space, the gap it’s empty. The chair: I know it’s still there. The signs of a history, the remaining touch of withered hands and and awkward silence. A ghost remains, it fills up the entire room, it occupies our nights, it touches us as ice. Its unavoidable, it stands behind, it holds its arms up, and it touches us. We pull up, outside the house, and hold our breath, we step as slowly as we can. Eyes like water, and legs like stone, time stands still, where once had flown. Looking in too scared to enter, and sit down and face the end.
Track Name: eight
You’ve got mutual aid, yeah where it suits you to the ground, oh it’s such a heart warming display. I didn’t punch my card and now I’m told to stay at home, I’m sure we’ve worked this shift before. So is that it? do we resign and walk right by? And claim we both were forced to quit? I’m sure we arrived with good intentions, and now we wear the mask that fits. I built my own machine, designed upon your methods, I oiled it up and burned it out. It’s been working on and off for many years now, I even took you for a spin. But you know this machine won’t drive on just three wheels, it would just crumble under weight, you know just as well as I do, but we’ll drive on at any rate. Justify your actions on a page to feel something. Contemplate your superior practice, you feel numb.
Track Name: nine
I won’t change my mind, in light of what might be: we set this up and we wrote it down. This is no question, no lee-way, no c’est la vie, we picked our side and we picked it right. And if we can’t agree on something, I don’t know how we can go on but oh, it’s a fractured web, it’s a drop into the sea, and it’s cut at the sides. Our efforts dampened but mostly by our own hands, how could I make you see? Silent crowd, no words no sound, suits you to the ground. Empty faces an option wasted, no growth, to be found. Shaking hands, averted stares, your credo unwound. Corrupted guidelines - a state of mind, exclusionist by your design. We have a chance now, to gather factions, to push against it, propaganda by deed. This is a tired plight, voiceless by your design. A grouping confined, by which we are defined.
Track Name: ten
So proud to see life, face pushed to a pinhole, with positions drawn out, and bridges raised. But I can see out, only blank landscapes, to see the faces pressed into dirt. To question the notion, that all is not as it seems, results it being told. That my reaction is a process of hate, but I just want to LOVE. The second I whisper, or open up my mouth I see the back of head. Instead of passing I take the bait: I bang my head into a wall. A clenched fist forms nothing, it returns onto itself and bores a hole. And my reaction to a process of hate means that I, I just want to LOVE, the second I whispered and opened up my mouth I saw the back of a head. Pushing down to see what comes off, applying pressure to the spring, in the hope that it will not recoil, and fling back into me.