LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED two men in a van peel out into the night, accent a kiss goodbye with unfriendly headlights suffused with mad screams. "spoon up his sour cream!" me-damnée obscene with no self-esteem. they'll die someday by soft machete. it gets queasy and very dizzy at the sight of blood, love and jerry rigged 'merican guns that explode in hands of children. me fall for want talkin' childhood injuries. joke that I'm turned on by her medical history. red faced and bold transmuting sentient distillery. a fall from grace blamed on some divine sexuality. now I'm in a van with a strange wing man. i see you and me. i hate when I scream, soul sage-like and obscene. wing man cues Bruce Springsteen, the American Dream and our adrenal glands. "Alicia, please call me, Alicia, please call me, Alicia, please call me..." "i have to let you go."

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED the majority were born in aphotic zones, a place where the light is unloving. the majority are prone to adapt their bones to an unclear existence. surround yourself with myths. give those to kids. buy truths and ignore the logistics of your suffering being uniquely grim, the whole world's dying for nothing. shoehorned in by the older folks, passing the torch. more sacrificed to the Hoax. succession undying and in no way edifying, just new fights at new heights and general advice from frazzle haired motherfuckers like," life is like brown rice." so life is like brown rice in the land of the Zone. in the land of Hambone. dying world trying it's hardest to showcase a mask of booming outcomes in accents ecstatic, accents cracking, accents waver from Southern to Snapping. voices say," i'm good. we're good. it's good." but the likelihood of good is less likely than a giant squid crawling out your toilet and stroking on your sainthood. backbones raised by joyless groans. cheekbone carved by the caustic edge of a milestone, a wild stone. a stone that broke the windows in your childhood home... how the hell do we get out of the Zone? but what about the logic that controls all your a bombs? what about the ethos that defines the place that you live in? who could've predicted that you'd be a domestic cat brawling with your own identity on the living room floor in a liquor store of their high rise. no limits. a place where you have grown and taught your bones to brace against a kinda constructed existence. surround yourself with myths. give those to kids. buy truths and ignore the logistics of your suffering being uniquely grim, the whole world's dying for someone.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED a Belmonte is a beautiful mountain, a stone faced sumo wrestler who'd never forsake the sky. now it's a family name presented to a family who put that beautiful mountain to shame. take a look at their way of life. they're not the righteous socialites who'll close down a barbershop just to get off. orgasmic full stop. these aren't the types to wear the name. they don't possess the Vain nor Frame. they see shooting stars. wish for open doors. they are the worst kind of impersonator. a cleansing's discussed. "we'll kill them, we must." but the Belmontes are people. they just kind of suck. they were swallowed by systems and told to create demons, then feed them and watch them curate their own crazy... well, the Belmontes coming with the store bought muffins. got four little boys with habitual concussions. four little boys put Peeps in microwave ovens to watch something get fat and die and then eaten like it's nothing. get that sweet shit down in my stomach. moms gone. i feel sick in my stomach. oh no, i got hit right in my stomach. me and my brothers were auctioned off to a predatory Scientific Community and experimented on and on and on. they used emotive machines. high powered emotional beams proficient enough to cut glass. make a childhood fall fleet. show up to the family reunion with my smile looking sacked. pour a solo cup of Sunkist. tip my Stone Cold Steve Austin baseball cap to my first cousin sipping solo Dr. Pepper. a carbonated exchange upon a sleeve of scarlet letters. a family fractured but holding onto an image because of an instinct so inward that you'd have no choice but to live your life as the son of a warlord and love him just the same. the Belmontes coming with the store bought muffins. and the Belmontes are people. they just kind of suck. they were swallowed by systems and turned into cucks to a beautiful mountain that knows how to fuck but not how to love. it made them crazy.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED i wanna be with you but I don't know how to push on through a destructive self image that informs policies which deem sound relationships as conservative garbage. i just want to be happy and i really don't know how to schoolmaster sappy. a dance craze too fancy, i tried but it's flashy. i wanna be with you and try to transcend the quiet servitude of a historic common mood, too bleak and not future proof. within me there's crisis, a practice parroting the philosophy of carcinogens. i wanna be with you, cut a rug on a grain of feel good terrain. land a backflip so nasty that the whole world takes my last name. i wanna be with you... it's trifling.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED i don't wanna live a life that doesn't have you standing right the hell in it. exist on a timeline with no meet cute would cause some fantastic damage. i don't wanna entertain an alternate dimension where i don't know you, and in my soul a valley forms trashed with the caskets of a bad mood. i don't wanna live a life that doesn't have a second of you singing. i see you spit with comfy lips on "Broken-Hearted" by Karmin. i'm brain painting the storybook romance of a pop star and her guitarist merging p**ts in the darkness of their tour bus to the sound of her fans' exploding hearts. i'm flying helicopters full of cheese but jalapeno choppers won't give me heart disease. good love has been seen between a queen and an amputee, a man who lost part of himself like the flower and honey bee. i'm flying helicopters full of cheese but jalapeno choppers won't give me heart disease. in every bit of her is a passage to a gentle breeze leading my ass to the glory of total ease. i'm flying helicopters full of cheese but jalapeno choppers won't give me heart disease. i'll give every bit of me to stare at the greatness of good things misplaced and would gladly accept her bullet into my timid poker face.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED we sit down to say grace. i start to make a face. i'm feeling the religion of a family raised on faith. pills are the faith. the fucking birth rate. remember his fear when the cervix dilate? he's walking outside to a gatling gun. did he not tell you he disappoints his loved ones? i aim for embrace. i am not defaced. i don't give a fuck if i give hugs to deep space. you don't need it. dead weight. love can replace and it can 'cos it's present and doesn't circumvent the substance of being human. it free falls into visceral trauma and goes sightseeing. dissociates your supreme being and muddies life's true meaning. i don't wanna be an asshole! do I give cash or do I Venmo? have I blown through this world like tornados? "no, man. you're benign as potatoes." i don't wanna be an asshole! and to fulfill this i give my life a chaperone. a lovely tutor with hormones to put her number down in my hydroponic cellphone. you don't remember everything that made you what you are, and even in recollection, it's a one-sided memoir. i've been an impossibly good person who challenged the serpent and left this world elevated and squ***ng. i don't wanna be an asshole! but I'm drinking at your place. i'm drinking kinda fast, i'm drinking like this fine thing was never built to last and now I'm walking outside to a gatling gun. did i not tell you i disappoint my loved ones? the drunken embrace. give hugs to deep space. watch me fucking with my shadows trying to activate a gateway into darkness that will expose me to Christ vibes so I can live my life without giving moments of peace bribes and now I've exited my body. it's proper Kamikaze. it's social suiciding ass first into the heart of every party. expose the insecurities of a hardly Hard Lee to the innocent minds of a construct full of Barbies. my name's in blood on the wall. every blood drop in it's own downfall and in the flames of my own dumb wrath, the construct severed ties with a path and now it's hitting you up for select ass skin grafts. i'm hitting you up to validate my own math. i don't wanna be an asshole.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED grace notes are completely useless... and you should know that I've never known a monster who operates quite like you. you create so much destruction with your eyes closed. skull unglued. brain perverse and nude. prodigal accent like a grace note in a place living long after we're through. i can't even look at you. i wanna look at anything but you. why can't you get hit by a fucking car? a thing you invented to travel real far. look at swarms of sunburned men. they pull apart your skin to make room for them. they burrow into your body to survive for millennium. they build cities on your insides and kill your loved ones. they're just fluff. they don't transcend. the grace note that never ends. and i'll never know a monster who is quite like you. well, i've never known a monster who has it's presence so misconstrued. well, i've never known.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED what are we doing here? what... are we doing here? we're here to find how far you'll climb a malaprop. it's the word "love". you've utilized and abused in error. an admirer who doesn't care. we'll call the cops if you don't tell the truth. you've belly flopped against her youth. we'll put your ass on Bullshitter Death Row, White Boy. enjoy. uh oh. when she's not with me, i feel like i'm living in shit. project your perils on me and i'll show you the love of a fist. i've been climbing this mountain, a clever analogy, and the wisdom behind it has saved me from catastrophe. i wanna climb the shorter length of her spine with my fine ass face. put my lips on her neck, give pecks so feral it cures all the contagion that erupt in my station. assassination out of love for your better half. i need you, Lady. why the hell you think I'm climbing up purple mountains? your Majesty, you keep me grinding. disoriented. these mountains grow so rapidly. i'll climb forever if that's what this needs. i know what I'm doing here. looking awfully sweaty through the next calendar year. climbing with purpose for the one i hold dear.

LYRICS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECORDED well, you know I'm a doomster, Lady. a chicken with priorities shaky. flap my wings like an angel if you could buy them dead at a grocery store, packed naked and shaved, honey glazed for the carnivore. there's no sinking feeling, Lady. i feel sort of festive lately, and I know how I feel in a soul so piecemeal can be so lumbering. it's the Achilles Heel of a limp dick on a potter's wheel, of a tall drink that replaced my meals. canned innovation late at night in a gas station only made my doom stronger whereas you make me conjure up a thing called "integrity". i wanna glitter like a Kennedy. i wanna find the Essence of Doom and give it a lobotomy, tie it up in the basement of my psyche, twenty stories high up it goes. higher, it shows... higher, it shows.