Feel the heat:
lemonade and sweating beads.
Ninety-three,
hydrants flowing, children in the street.
Rockwell’s dreams
idealize these wasteful things.
And I think:
I’d rather sigh than cry or stutter;
turn frustration into fodder.
But it seems
my nostalgia’s not so different;
participation is implicit.
Magazines
place me right inside the scene.
The imagery
tells me how I ought to want to be.
Disagree,
but I can’t help questioning:
is it me?
Who’d rather fight and bite, not barter.
You push me, I’ll puch back harder.
Don’t you see?
Twenty-five and lacking purpose,
haven’t even scratched the surface,
and time is not so infinite to me.
Texas-T
straight onto the H.O.V.
One, two, three:
will we ever kill the I.C.E.?
Feel the breeze:
roads that stretch on endlessly.
What’s it mean:
to move forward without purpose?
Haven’t even scratched the surface.
And I think
that I have always felt estranged
cause I could never speak the language:
dollar signs are pocket change to me.
This album fucks as hard as dripping and magic but imo feels the most personal and emotional release of the three. It’s weird and frantic but hits
this really interesting balance.
jude