The aesthetic was neglect,
yet we marveled at the fact that the house got wrecked,
that the good bands broke up,
that good friends died doped up,
we said “that’s life” while our hands turned the wheel,
together making a world we said felt unreal.
Mouthing the words,
making sounds till you can’t anymore,
it would be funny if it weren’t so sad,
and laughing doesn’t get you any closer to telling the jokes.
Fumbling for pills again,
like you fumble toward climax,
they shake in your hand,
gone again in a rush, avoiding pain.
Knowing stopped being enough,
I have it all in my head,
I scream it out every night.
Your mouth has blood in it,
meaning is never found,
I’m willing to die but there is no fight.
I want to be an old shack in the desert,
torn apart by neglect and filling with dust,
a dry heat inside, insulation hanging off of the walls,
concrete cracking, mummified spider bodies perched in webs that never see the light.
supported by 35 fans who also own “Hidden Histories”
I don't think anything I write here will do justice to the artist who commited to this.
It feels like he lets his heart open up to you with vulnerability and colours of sorrow, confusion, frustration and hope. All at once. And it's genuine.
What does it all mean? Read the title. It all falls down in place and it's truly great. szczur