The Castaway

it seems like
elevators moving to the top of the 21 first century
mentioning
the one and only last loves calling you their

last theory

to surmise

you have worked
you have been
washed up on the shore

left to die

and this is why

you have worked
you have washed upon the shore
left to die

and this is why

surviving
only by great schemes with their streamed themes of
thievery

into the eye
of this high rise
a tide
moving like
brittle cattle
sent to slaughter
by the falter
of their stances
the brain
shifts and advances
romances the mind

one spirt

darkened by

what's calling you from that side
all sides
all around
inside you
eating you all
alive
like a hive mind meant
to feast on that fleece
warming slow
as the ocean blankets
the silence

you have worked
you have been
washed up on the shore

left to die

and this is why

you have worked
you have washed upon the shore
left to die

and this is why

This Week

is THE week. We are working on setting up a photo shoot for our album bio picture, which consists of me n the bro in our gear, me sittin at a type writer, both draped in these suicide girl lookin girls, compliments of clint's friend who happens to be a stripper, can't wait for it.

We are also finishing the record hopefully in the next week.

That is all.

Pearls and Dirty Deals

At the lodge, the elderly, Susan McDonald sits moving through smiles hugs and kisses, then starts to talk to a young 30 something about life and the concept of stories. Stories are what define people, make them grow, make them skrink, they define essentially who we are, as we all are a culmination of choices and the consequences there of. Susan had a bone to pick with the world, and so it seeped into every conversation she had. Her day to day interactions were only a series of reminders that she must live the rest of her time as an actor locked into a single scene.

Living in the footsteps of her deceased husband meant attending Lodge gatherings every week. The Lodge was simply an abbreviation for a fraternal type of organization for old folks under a layer of secrets and rituals. She could avoid these gathering, there was always that, but in the end it would be a poor decision, equating to certain alienation.

As Susan speaks to her new young friend, she feels the longing stare of an old codger of high notoriety, Leon Smith. He was the grand chancellor, who always wore his well-pressed blues with a red tie and an antique pocket watch. He stereotypically had cigars and a nice, fine single malt scotch on ice. His mannerisms were equivalent to a whirlpool, he spent his time spinning in social circles, while their powerful drums beat upon his heart, pushing him to stoop to suspicious behind the door deals and insider trading. His status as police chief had once led him to turn a cold eye to the exploits of past chancellors, but now his gaze is fixated solely on the lovely, Susan McDonald. As he speaks to his friends laughing about Cowboys football and bad barbecue at Harold's, she became his only exploit and focus; she was the one he never could quite corner.

The story goes that Leon Smith had to retire a bit earlier than planned, all hush hush of course, to avoid certain infamy as the one who may have single handedly ruined the reputation of the Dallas Police force by participating in the blackmail of a certain Colin McDonald. If it had went public, it could have also adversely affected the exploits of his wife, Barbara Smith, who was President of the Ladies for Christ. It was a classy women's group in the Dallas Baptist Church of Holy Mercy. Barbara has long since passed on, having sucuumbed to the pathogenesis of cancer.

The Church of Holy Mercy would later experience its own share of shame, as its pastor was arrested for having his wife killed. His plan was for he and his trophy mistress to live happily ever after. More so, he wanted the young pretty blonde from Los Angeles, California, to be next to his side publicly so that he, Bill Matula, could be recognized as not only the apple of the Lord's eye as pastor of the largest Baptist church in Texas, but also as the hot shot he wished he always was to his elitist congregation.

The Lord, crafty and ever silent, would have none of this, however, as seen by his eventual tragic demise. Bill Matula was also known for his elaborate love triangles among his flock. He and Susan M. cheated on their respective partners for a brief period of time. It was a lasting rumor, leading to many heated affairs between Colin and Susan, as those in power always become a target for suspicion of dirty deeds. In this situation, however, the speculations were warranted, what with the killing of his wife and all. When Pastor Bill Matula was arrested and all that horror was revealed, Susan did not seem to mind much, in the end he had thrown her aside as quickly as he took her to his bedside. He had moved on to a bigger prize, her former best friend, Lucy Deringer.

Deringer was interesting. She had been the Lodge's Thanksgiving Day Queen in the Lake Highlands Parade for three consecutive years, a Church of Holy Mercy record that still stands. Lucy was the wife of Billy Deringer, a blue blood, who's dad left him the family oil business after he died in 1935; it was a fortune which christened his first born a millionaire at the age of 12. She had chosen money in love's stead, as love to her was only a few months of intrigue, whereas money could take her farther, into the arms of suntanned, Italian bodyguards in the baths of Rome. Ultimately, Lucy knew Susan could never win the battle for the Pastor, and so she became another of her lost loves. At the end of the day, Lucy could deal with losing Susan, if it meant never missing an annual vacation to the Swiss Alps in Europe.

Thus, all these men and women experienced hardship representative of life. They changed in the pattern of sine curves, up and down like roller-coasters: simple, predictable, rudimentary. Wedding after wedding and funeral after funeral, the leaves continuously flipped and turned all shades of dark purples and browns preceding the footsteps of the ever stagnant, Susan McDonald.

As time passed, she became more and more aware that she was the single entity that remained in a time capsule. After her husband passed, it was as if she was placed in a repressive yet spacious container, where she now remained, living yet buried six feet under with her husband at the Willowbend Funeral and Burial Home.

She, locked away there and held against her will, was asking him every morning as she hit the snooze bar and looked over at her empty bed, "Why?" Did she not love him enough, did she not cook the meals to their proper texture, or hold him up in public as the beacon of her day to day? Every Sunday, like a mass or ritual, the lovely Susan would cook his favorite meal, watch Sunday Media Roundtable Delta Force, and return to Willowbend with the paper. She would sit at Colin McDonald's tombstone in a little, red chair she had, and read the paper aloud. Since he had decided to be a force of love in her life whether she liked it or not, she decided she would submit and honor his proclamation.

Alexander Beverage, husband of the fair woman Susan is speaking to, Blair Beverage, waves and moves past them. Blair returns his looks and holds his gaze, smiles, then returns to Susan.

"Why couldn't you ever remarry?"

Susan laughs, "Oh, if I told you, you'd probably leave me right now!"

"No, I wouldn't. It can't be that bad, can it?"

"Oh, it's a story I have no answer to really. It's one that has left me here to interpret it many ways, even by how I am feeling on any day! If I am lonely at home, watching re-runs on the cable TV, oh, it becomes that Colin wanted to keep me forever, even from the grave and afterlife. But, if the day is nice out and the cool December air is moving across my face near the lake down the street, then the story is he wanted me to always think of him and cherish the peace after the storm we had with our marriage. I think he did what he did because ultimatiely he wanted me to decide, 'Do I value money over love?' It's as if he wanted me to validate that Love was greater, more powerful and relevant than money. I was always something of a problem for him when it came to money."”

"I see."

"Love was and is important, but I am not at an age to make a new life. So I have boyfriends, all my age, who dream of dying with a soft spoken, caring wife, that decide to leave after they learn of my little 'arrangement.' It happens around 6 months."

"Susan, what on earth did he do?"

"He put a statute in his will that if I remarry, I would lose all his millions."

Blair was pretty much stunned. Susan had spent a decade living as a revolving door of love and loss, all for the millions of her dead husband, when their kids probably could have taken care of her!

But Blair caught herself, "Who am I?" she asked herself.

She knew that at some point eating and having a roof over her head may have been more important than any ceremony or the comfort of companionship. What did marriage mean when one reaches a certain point, a desperation point???

These are complicated problems with no real solutions. We have entered an age of dancing voyeur's. We all spend time staring through glass panes at the perils and miseries of this evolving universe and species bent on pushing the boundaries of their limits. We peer into it, we get off on the experience of life changing before our eyes, good or bad. How can this world continue to exist, when it seems we have become plastic flimsy shells of what we used to be in the days of FDR and Hitler? In those days, the lines between good and evil were quite clear, but on a grander scale, not like our microcosm of terrorist factions and the spinning of sound bytes. Our wars in the 21st century pale in comparison, resembling little brush fires planted here and there, whose emergent, collective property is a chaos of raging forest fires. There is not a clearly defined side to follow.

So we, the voyeur's, move from starlet to starlet from sports star to sports star, and there sits old, Susan McDonald who still witnesses a black and white innocence while watching Turner Movie Classics. These are not movies but photographs rough around the ages that capture an honest time, not the complicated turmoil of our homogenenous metropolis. On many occasions, she will watches these movies for what seems like eternity in the quiet of her study, often until the sun peaks from behind the top of the large maple tree at the bottom of her backyard hill. Even today it hangs over Forest Lane shielding her gaze from on coming traffic.


Susan whispers something into Blair's ear, they laugh, and she whisks away from the table, down the vacuumous tunnel of social standing. Hi, bye, thank you, see you, will you, then you, but you, past the big brown doors, and out to the parking lot. The crowd watches as Susan exits the lodge to her old, well groomed Mercedes. She immediately flips on her favorite Opera about the tragedy of two lovers. She rolls down the window, and sings at the top of her lungs.


As she putters down the street, the leaves move away behind her like the memories of Colin and the kids and the house and, definitely, the American Dream.

Story Idea

Character, a woman, is trying to track down her life in a photo essay, as she digs further she unravels truths of her family, she doesn't want to face, each picture brings that story to life before her.

Add to this later.

Book Two: Plans of the Planets

In our second volume, it will explore the worlds of the Galacti and how the space ghosts seekin to end all life are merely the spirits of the galactus of every planet in the universe, all lie dormant waiting to awaken and implode the universe to create one dimension, the perfect dimension, where wars and conflict are merely latent memories of a past bad experience, a perpetual heaven

the music is with maria and clint and myself, and will explore indie themes with a mix of male and female vocals exploring their own universe, the plans of the planets to bring back a utopia, a metaphor for our quest for self realization and unification

this is the second book, The Plans of the Planets

Poem for A Dissociative Distance

outstrecthed and stumbling
like the spirit
she always was

who was

to not only be
but she

who was meant
to gather and horde
more of her
secrets
upon secrets
slithering
with a tempting sway
all the way
behind the receptors
hidden in the hippocampus,
a toothed and scaly
giant breathing flames
of sensuality
swept away in a moments
revelation so defiant
of time
of infinity
of infamy
of all the things
blinded and glimmering
like colors erupting
from fireworks who
taste the atmosphere
for the first time
for the last time
showering
sparklers and hope
into her open mouth

she awaits in the sunlit tunnel

while he

crawls out of the smashed
degraded automobile
and back into his

fractured frame

Images for Book

We have finished all the music for the album and are in the process of recording vocals drums and bass, and are now working on the artwork for the book/album. It will be a comic size illustrated book with CD on the inside, we are making 55 of them and will number each one.

The Galactus

this is the companion poem to Questions of Existence

exploring together
forever

moving like milk
and plasma swirling

like a breath frozen
in the midst of revelation

what were they there for
and what do they chase

on the sunscape eclipsed by
their thirst for

silence

left like crumpled paper
floating to the ocean floor

where ideas for salvation are lost
in the chaos of time whose

grasses are transient silk and satin
robes guiding their piety

as they quench species
in dreams with seams tied together

by atom bombs and infantry movements
into the fray where

they say
nothing

utter only the whisper of the damned
who will not sleep

until they move past millenia
of black holes
and empty vacuumous space

finally satiated

as days slide
into nothingness

they will shuttle themselves

into another

Garden of Eden
and continue on


epilogue:

and the sturdy men, women, and children of the red icy igloo called Mars became stars releasing the message as they shared silence became the making of their own destruction by a force released from the ices of Mundar in the southernmost pole in Sleep and Sedation

It is he, he who dwells in all planets,
a button switch of sudden notice as you
become a sunspot gold lime line of coke
sprayed onto a blackboard
eating into the core of your busy
mazes with phases in and out
blazes trails
out from and in and out of how he
devours your spirit

whole

Release the Galactus
and release the millions of souls

into heaven

forever

Voyeur Movements

Here is the new song we wrote based on the intro and my friend Andrew's track he sent us, we radically altered and rearranged

at :42 seconds (repeat 3 times)-

there was no one
there is no one
there will never be

any solutions

at 1:43/44-

the hands move through you
and into (don't rush let note hang)
the movement of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserrrrrveeeee

the words of these (high note)
please (high note) don't move from
the windows of churches (go to a low note)
perched
and searched
and ready to bleed (medium note)

from the fruit
of
their seeds
planted in me
streams of locusts
focus

planted in me
planted in me
planted in me


start at 3:03/4-
their dope fiends
descending as means
to behoove you as we move you
to simply let gooooo
and follow

the most hollow
figments
remnants
of youuuuuurrrrr
imagination

after sample at 4:11 exactly:
There is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions (times 3)

start at 5:07-
of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
son
do you figure
will be the spell
cast to hash it out
with you and your
shadow man
your fellow man
you left behind in a trail of
fast food signs
and empty voter polls

start at 5:48-
So here we are
Two from the same origin
no one in blood
but molded in notes
pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
from the tarry black surfaces
as you

look up like

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions

(no one no one no one no one no one no one)

song is sick

more art work

Questions of Existence

soundscape by clint allday.
based on the story composed by curt allday

Questions of Existence

There were rotating spirals in her eyes whose majesty has yet to be witnessed again. The stars seemed to shift in and out of the the male contributor's periphery while spinning and rotating like rocketships rising through Earth's atmosphere, but in this case, anothers' atmosphere. Both contributors flipped their heads back like tripped mousetraps to see the last of their once great species disappearing behind a wall of meteors. It was left to these two, as they were the only two.

Gases popped off the sides of their trasport vesicle, a bubble impermeable to would-be space destroyers, ghosts of space bent on eradicating all life in the universe. In its protection, they could recycle oxygen for the duration of their trip; on its outer edges, there were microscopic sensors searching light years ahead for a life sustaining planet.

And as the final two moved on towards their new home, the man and woman stared at each other in complete silence for a succession of centuries. They dwelled in the orbits of their quiet minds, watching each other sleep, back in utero, moving through the galaxies as comets became windmills pushing them to their final destination. They did not see life or some type of aliens along the way, they only saw darkness. It was a maddening sea of stars and hidden hurricanes of electricity.

However, after hundreds of lifetimes, they both had come to a mutual decision. It was now time.

"And?" He asked her.

"It has been," she stated, reluctant to continue, the sound of her own voice seemingly unnatural.

"Yes, it has. It has been a long time, so many breaths, I almost can't remember where we came from or where we are going. So quiet, still, the blackness has filled me with a new resolution, a new question.

"What is it?" She turns her head towards him.

"Where do we, how do we, start again?"

"That is very true, but think about it a different way."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the question is.....should we continue again? Maybe we are intended to drift for eternity in here like some kind of time capsule. Maybe we were always intended to leave all of our flaws and war mongering behind us."

"So we don't continue on? We let extinction become a viable option? I don't know, I have been having second thoughts about our initial decision." He uttered this softly as his breath visibly diffused towards her. In deep space, islands of ice are scattered variably throughout, swallowing them as they pass by, making them shake to the sounds of planet formation.

"Don't you remember what we left behind? The end was..." Her mouth quivered with the temperature drop.

"I understand, but can we afford to quit?"

"It isn't up to us, it is up to the Other. We wait, as His mind has yet to let His hand spill words of glass on to the page, to become one. He is the Other, the other striving to be convinced this is happening, trying to discern the answer to a miracle of explosive gases and reptilian dominance. He is writing because He wants to believe there is this greater purpose for existence.

"In time, there will be no more answers, only questions, and they will forget us or where we arose from. The Other's problem is ultimately faith, and so we must ask ourselves, if He can't find a reason to believe in our existence, then this story will be as vaporous as our surroundings. With indifference, He may forget to provide the details of our homecoming, about why we came back, about who we are, and why we persist on trying to nest an egg of human spirit in the blackened waters of the universe."

"Why would he do that?"

Her eyes became spinning plates, "Because He is hard of heart, self consumed, pulled apart from the seams, by aberrations and spirits disintegrating His mind into a kaleidoscope of wars, sacrifice, greed."

"But can't all this be saved on scrolls or His old, scribbled notebooks? Will He not be forced to speak and spread even if He does forget, even if He doesn't want to tell?"

"He could be," she spoke and her fingers moved up his arm.

The fires from the sun seemed to rain dragons along the curvature of their synthetic womb, their heart formulating equations while their copulations became waves of Eros, like mathematical equations solved in Earth's deep oceans.

He sensed her thoughts,"There are waves there?"

She nodded. Their eyes shut synergistically and they fell open and became open to another possibility, another experiment.

The descent had begun.

After a thousand years of travel, the two flew past the moon and down into the atmosphere. They opened their eyes to giant sized birds, filling the skies like a swarm of maddened killer bees making their way across Mexican dunes. Every inch of sky leaving Terydactals reeling, while they plummeted into the mouths of monsters who raise their eyes to the glowing red orb moving above them.

The fumes of life moved through their bubble and through their nostrils, filling them with strange, new microscopic creatures, who celebrated a new species of infection. Yet, they seemed familiar, a remnant of some distant visit. The Earth inhabitants seemed to remember their taste, one they had stumbled upon ages ago.

The contributors' silence was broken by the cacophony of creation, the chaotic construction of another civilization. Apes and monkeys once left to move through stages of evolution, congregated around the man and women's crude outline in the brown, sulfurous dirt.

With the puncture of the earth's crust, they rose from the flames, all memories lost of their past, failed time on another planet, in another future. In a breath of unfamiliar molecules, they felt life again, they felt their new existence, their relevance, their hope.

The Other watched from above and scribbled on and on and on. The creatures on earth continued, the contributors moved forth through the brush and into the rift valley. The palace from above was merely a dream, the past only a newspaper headline.

They had each other.

Hand in hand, their feet felt the lush grass and they knew this was home. The seeds had been planted, the mission complete. As the roar of the amazons and congos rushed forth, the tower of Babylon lay before them and they entered the garden.

New Artwork

New Artwork inspired by songs and themes:










Lyrics and song info:

New Edit: Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (Claire Edition)

changed the format of this piece to better serve the music, art is a lot about compromise, you cannot hold on to a sentence or word bc such greed confounds the intention

anyway, here's the new edit:

start at 15 seconds and continue to 50 seconds

believe it

it is time
to unwind
"the dangling signs
from the hotel window panes

the cool frost building
on all thing quiet and still
the pills grasped
and dropping
and evaporating

believe it (fade out)

begin sample at 1:12
ends as beat studders, climax as changes

doyle plays and fades in and vocals begin as noise disortion over beat erupts

start at 2:33-34
like shuttles bursting through
the atmosphere
you move into my eyes
you show me why (end on low note, and sing direct)

in low, growl, add flange:
they
have

decorated
forest floors
doorways (sing this word)

--sing here---
into my mind
into your mind
the kind of find
you had as a boy

--back to abrupt---
wandering
all around
find
to try
this diction
and fiction
resides
in your skull
flying through your bedrooms (sing this word)

-----sing-----
with the truth of the wise
the other side of
those
rising tides

----back to abrupt----
reveal
a better way
say
its over
its never over
as my tear
rolls and
folds

then whispers (sing like the part "believe it"):

"believe it" (fades)

then let it ride

A Dissociative Distance

It began like any Discovery Channel telly show...in the Sahara, in the brush, in the hidden heart of darkness wild and full of guns.

There weren't any rifle shots, there weren't any bombs, or secret missions of escape. The hall of this vast, ever growing jungle of soul searching, was moving back across the muck and brush of swamps and cryptic lagoons, revealing Z's modest size bed where he sat in thought.

This was in his apartment.

Each room of Z's apartment had a particular theme, each met with decor and functionality to create a little world for the little Lilliputians. The Egypt room had the feel of ancient hieroglyphics with an odd twist. It was a shrine to Elvis, in only what I presume to be a metaphor for him being the "pharaoh" of rock'n'roll?

In his room with the Curious George hanging from the lone chandelier, he had a mixture of ash trays, CD's, and a framed painting of Biggie Smalls. Besides the Jungle room, it had the ever common castle room, where his roomie, a 50's something tweeker, sat and stared into the mesmerizing orb of his telly playing a VHS tape of the Guns N roses video, "Estranged," which by the way has no real hidden storyline, no real meaning, other than a mad man with soon to be dreadlocks swimming & waiting to leave the stage forever, to hide behind the stars of stardom.

In guitars and loud beats from bass drums and electronic whips and whirs, there is spirituality hidden deep. Each time it appeared on his stereo, he would drift away, moving through a dark night's sky, like some distant fog hiding behind the crest of the moon.

There are two of Z, there are two of me, and there are definitely two of you. There is this hidden soul creature that lies dormant behind the hippocampus, where there sleeps a dragon napping on his treasures of past victories against man and its mystic legends. The dragons of mythic lore are no longer need to storm, as man continues to create his own in blasts and bombs and button pressing and shock n' awe. The legends of unicorns, elves, dragons, and fairies retreat from our wars, our possession with hate and fury and war and politicking. And that is where we go when we are quiet, still, and feeling the music drift away into our souls. That is Z will be in 20 minutes as he moves further from his Jungle apartment room on the 10th floor in the mission district of San Francisco.

In households, such as his, enlightenment hides in its silliness. The mind must prevail against the idea that material space can somehow dampen the spirit, as sometimes one must purify themselves by living in simplicity with nothing whatsoever. This induces hunger, this pushes you to the brink, the idea that tomorrow will be better because today can be no worse.

So after getting ready, he grabs his coat and his cigarettes, while the purrs of a 11 cats hound his every step as they fight for some affection. The door thuds behind him and he hears, "Crazy Train," now blaring, he shakes his head, says something to himself, and slithers across the grass.

The rather tacky gold of the Elvis shrine is directly out his driver side window, as he presses the gas and leaves. The siphon of smoke coming from the end of the filter moves through the trachea and into the tender branches of the bronchioles, across to the blood, where one could hear the rush of black tar moving and attaching itself to the sticky plasma. The orgasms from prior experiences appear out of no where and then go away, he changes to the next song and doesn't know why, he believes the government is against him and doesn't have any real proof, and he calls an old friend from high school but mistakes him for a friend from college. He continues down the hills of Oak waging a war on mediocrity, becoming nothing other than a grad school burn out.

But in a moment, with the wind in the right direction, the waves of spirituality seemed to brim from the surface of his cerebellum, moving through every nerve, and out of his eye sockets. In the past, there were periods of time where Z's consciousness would be vaporous and become something ghost-like, a shell of another life, able to freely walk the earth and gather wealth, the wealth of spiritual revelation, a deposit for a rainy day, so to speak. The ghost of his unconscious moved away to the reality of the evening, a soul about to depart on a scouting session to answer all of his questions.

This was the place, this was the way.

The lights went black along the street. Everything disappeared and a faint blossom of a blood vessel appeared upon his eyelids as the heart pulsated in response to his realization that he had lost all control.

In the space of seconds, many dreams were realized, many poems were written, many songs were composed, the lights blinking rapidly hovering above his consciousness were mixtures of greens and reds and purples, vibrant royal purple leaves falling from the atmosphere, burning as they touched his reddened, balding scalp.

His shoulders felt pulled upon and light, no longer heavy and burdensome as in the real world, the world where his car drifted along the road, moving and moving towards the barricade, ricocheting off the sides and into a ditch covered in tires and empty soda cans.

The blackness was solid, tarry, a veil over time and space.



Z awakened to a smear of blood, with iron glistening on his lips, the sirens calling to him through some forgotten hymns from psalms buried in caves and sarcophagi:

you were home, you were home, but we needed you to return; remember, this is not over and it is never a good time to quit, son, this isn't a time to remember the past and let it dwell, hollow us out; ya got to let it all go, ya gotta let yourself be hurt and healed, and feel the rebirth of a thousand baptisms, this is what is needed in your departure to another place, another space without any time.

This is where you will be, not where you are now. So open those eyes, open them up, and no longer be shell smashed, but free from bottles, free from everything, free.

Z opens the door and stretches his arms.

"I'm Okay," and he brushes off his scuffed up coat sleeve.

"Copy," the paramedic murmured, "Yes, he says he's okay, no medical attention necessary, got it... Listen, we're going to go if you're alright, " Z nods, "Okay, great... well, you tell him this will take at least 20 minutes and then we'll move on! Because I said so..."

The busy man trails off.

Z couldn't remember any thing then, his concussion scrambling his paperthin thoughts. He knew something awaited him in the future, but it was all forgotten; only sparklers and incense were left to move through his nostrils and into his skull.

Thus far, the layout

1. Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (music at myspace, search our name, music is ambient, industrial)- breakdown, hip hop still work in progress, melodies complete

2. The Hominids are All Asleep (music by band)- melodies complete

3. Your Face and Plane Drifting to the Bottom (tone's bass line, music by band)

4. Why Conversations; use a audio tape recorder and capture conversation from this site, then add these lyrics after quote, melodies complete-

These are not the only words
Once spoken
You have said them to so many people
Why? Why? Why?

Updates to come

First 2 Songs Begun

Last night was our first full on practice of a band, with this dude Doyle from Phoenix who is a freakin bad ass drummer and my brother

We finished the Hominid Poem and The Bottom of the Sea poem seen below, and both are incredibly different from one another

We plan on adding very epic, ISIS type guitars over the second all spoken word piece, the Hominid one is an actual song with a discernable chours

Then my brother has two instrumentals from before sitting around, so we're going to use those two, I have to find a piece that will fit over it

Stay tuned

these are changes for The Hominids are All Asleep:

In streams you seem to move
ever so slowly
a hand swimming in
the river bed and all their
the heads relieved of exhaustation
in
one
fail
swoop
loops:
"You will not
forget
ever
because you cannot
predict,

you
can only remember sins"

you can only remember sins X 4

and lest
you wish to
become
preyed upon

ever there
glimmering and glittering
to gather and horde
millions of eyes
looking on
shifting on
the quiet song
will forever long
will dance and draw
to worship her countenance

you can only remember sins X4

in the
reflections staring back
RIGHT
from the stream serene (in the)
sun
LIGHT
Be-lieve (it's)
no longer a forgotten memory
or funeral late night revelry
it's a burial ground
an explosive rush

of putting this
of shoving this
of believing this

of believing this (repeat)

the following to be spoken or ascension:

it falls to the ground
the act complete
her face hidden
by the hands
now stuck

touching

fixed to

ultimately

infinitely

hers

It has begun

After much work and talk, Geppetto Gestapo will happen this summer, we are changing this album/book a bit, in the interest of money and time, we will record 3-5 tracks this summer that will include vocals, three poems from here, and the stories will be included in a pdf file or in book form

The vibe we are going for can be a cross between noise/indie/hiphop/industrial, some groups that are inspiration include dialect, 13 & God, Themselves, The Dragon Experience, Skinny Puppy, the anticon collective, nick cave, bob dylan, kurt vonnegut, haruki murakami, and the list could probably go on

Anyway, I may be posting more stories and poems, we will see how the inspiration surfaces, there has been many changes in my life that probably inspire a thoughtful, meaningful dialogue on life and death and happiness and loneliness

if all goes well, this could be done by next year, until then, this is geppetto gestapo (known now as gG) related, probably simply an intro for the CD:

the hands move through
into
the movements of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserve
the grips of gripes and holds of
strings that hang like
vines
from Atlanta's greens,
their dope fiends descending as
means to behoove you as
we move you
to simply let go
and follow us into

the hollowest figments of your imagination
merely forgotten remnants of
insidious details of
what sour dreams are to become of
this world
as these atoms circulate and perculate
you to let go

let this master take you
forsake you
cake you
in make up
and wake you
from your eternal slumber

of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
son
do you figure will
be the spell cast to
hash it all out
with your shadow man, your
fellow man you left behind
in a trail of fast food signs
and empty voting polls

so here we are two from the same
origin, not one in blood
but molded in flesh to notes
to pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
to the tarry black surfaces

you look up
like

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any
solutions

My Top, the Hip Hop, and the Twenty Cop Questions

story comin soon


with the same procedures,

how- do- I?

get the love that I
need from you

start with a long deserved break

may i

provide
another foci
for your utmost pleasure

another symphony
for you to consider

while playing it
over and over

will you

remember these last 2 years
with a soft
faint heart
gettin fainter
the faintest miracles seen

in what was
the songs coming from the sun
over light years and into
our ipods,
the concept of gods
bringing eternity and
interrupting
the circadian rhythm
of our footprints
night and day
being swept over
by
tornadoes dating hurricanes
typhoons chasing earthquakes
nuclear radioation outbreaks
with the nuclear
holocaust cleaning dishes
under the faucet
of the nuclear family
scrubbing the ashes
mixed with plasma
stashed in their
family owned
biologically enhanced
blood banks

as I'm calling

can I

with the toast of this stye
can i
get what I need from you? as I

with the same
procedures,

how do I?
get the love that i need from you?

as with graves
and neonatal clinics
the cycle becomes
the cynic

who repeats

in the morning with car horns
in the distance behind
the hum of street sweepers
polishing
streets

swimming strickly
north to south like
shaking lamppoles
as instantly as incredible
as papa once performed
unimaginable feats

while gentlemen coddle their wives
in red carpeted
armchair seats

as they drift off and push off
into their vericose veins
completely
and ready
to move beyond tissues

and become dreams of seas
of midnight romance novels
as we move to meander through
highlight reels and indiscretions

and the camera stay on
and the siren come on
and we all run on
and the TV come on
and the alarm turn on
and it won't stop goin on

so how
IN THE NAME OF GOD
do we make it stop

and for who?
and to prove

what exactly?

What has this allllllllllll
got to do with me
and whyyyyyyyyyyyyy
am I writing this allllllllllllllll
down when out that door
there's money to be made

it's 'cause I fiend
for a conclusion I
want it all to appear
at some kinda cross roads
and pry open my eyes
and see the heart
that drapes
that hates
that breaks
me wide open
so I know when
to say no when
I know then
that the answer is,

I don't know either
however,
will we as citizens
continue to do what we have done for hundreds and hundreds
of years
change those same ,
procedures,
into some constitution,
anything you want,

well,

how do I with same exact sutures,

how do I

get the love
that i need from you

"Terrible Lie!"

things are afoot, or maybe i am lying in only that NIN Terrible Lie kind of screaming a loud covered in mud kind of fashion-

back into this from now until the summer time-

I think the new Tool may spawn something, good god

Ok this is not geppetto related, but something i dig from writing the other day:

winds blowing
down your back
down again
down
winding its way
across
the crease of your spine
holding
the delicate balance
that has become
your waistline
an equator
a sunbusrt
blinding all the eagles
as they decline
from the sky
down your clothesline
into your white
basket

the basket
is where you meet
and greet
and seek
the feeling
the memory
the ceiling
coming
down

around

the sound

that's found
you as you once were
in the dorm room
coughing up smoke
drinking
the games
of our
youthful
peter pan
bliss

i miss

you there
snorting lines
trying to find
the times
that once made you so very happy

with some other
man

there i am
on the outskirts
ostracized
a word
that makes me laugh
at its utter pervasive
persuasive
negativity

driving you down
the charcoal colored
pavement
into
the hills

over a millenia
of cultures
you discover
all that
you could

ever
become
severed
from the gorgeous waves
carrying you into
my mouth
a shattered
prism
of words
the curds
of my eternal whey
they say
so many
things
they have given
me so many promises
for the accolades
and
i discover
it was all a giant
maze
meant
to frazzle
and razzle
the fires of

all

creation
through

and through
until
i sit

a man defeated
by the sceptor
sitting in his own hand

a symbol

for what,
we'll never know