Old creaky bones awake as stones
Tumble, shaking of the dust
From boring light breaks cryptic night
Our eyes malign – burn to rust
So, I wrote some weird Mega Man-esque 8-bit sounding music a bit back and thought I would post it. Got kinda weird today and added a guitar track. I find the entire thing to be quite humorous, but the breakdown with the drum machine cracks me up the most. It’s SUPER repetitive. Enjoy!
Before Iris bloom
A silent ray pierced the gray
I’m trying really, really hard to find words for what’s going on in Ferguson, Missouri right now, but I’m failing to find them. It breaks my heart.
It breaks my heart to see a community suffer, to be denied their rights, to be treated like “fucking animals,” to be gassed, to have sniper rifles trained on them, to not be able to assemble and protest, to be denied life, liberty, and happiness.
It breaks my heart to see my home, my country treat people, human beings, our brothers and sisters of every color, creed, faith, and station to dishonorably. It breaks my heart to not be able to recognize my U.S.A.
It breaks my heart that this isn’t new; this is the reality that many of my countrymen and women face everyday. Yes, we’re paying attention now, but how many Michael Browns, John Crawfords, and Ezell Fords die without the country’s greater notice?
This is not freedom. Shooting unarmed men is not freedom. Killing unarmed men is not freedom. Arresting journalists is not freedom. Oppression by police is not freedom. Living a life terrorized by those who are supposed to serve and protect our communities is not freedom.
Without justice, how can there be peace?
Fifty years and what do we have to show
Don’t let the sun go down on you in Ferguson
“You’d best be gettin’ home”
We all sit, waiting for the man behind the curtain, In various states of disrepair Clinging to the hope that he'll make us whole Oh, to be so certain that this man will know: What ails ya? What eats ya? What has made your hole? Grows to swell; we're all sure he'll repair our mist'ry malady
Then a name is called with the number of your stall and a door slides wide open You present yourself your cold, naked self your trembling, wide-eyed self to a language you barely hear
Who is charismatic enough to speak in tongues unknown, foreign to your own? Stark and mad, your throat empties air and the man 'scribes a book Then, - shuffled and showed the wide sliding door still naked, still cold, into an expanding hall Consoling yourself that that man surely knows How to cure what ails you Still stark-craven cold
White sleeves roll shorter
Orange and green towels hang
About beaded brows
Echoes echo “E”
Soft spoken names airy drift
Then, sudden, silence