Текст песни Apt. A (1) (cLOUDDEAD) с переводом

Empty

Things

She’s calling

She’s calling me tonight

From just inside my lips

And

I’ll write her

Betterment of the world through wish

Wish I’d

Fall off, growing distant

I’ll write her

And pull my face fresh

From the waxy palms it’s kept soft in

There’s something

To the fading of faith

My whole childhood

Was the broken guitar

And my sister’s silly

Yellow blanket

Now I carry

Slender and sexy curved

Sledge hammers

To break the bricks

I bought

I should have never went to college

But took a trip to Costa Rica

To cut rainforests

To choke myself

Making up Miss Bobafetet as I go along

And rejecting the truths that I’ve been served

Making up Miss Bobafetet as I go along

And rejecting the truths that I’ve been served

Fool in

Besides

Tuition for my countenance

Pressed fine in reverse block

Style print

A product

Of cave drawings

Gone automated

With these loafers and a check book

Twisted tightly into… into

I know

A stiletto

Do you know how many times

I’ve thought about writing about the paper I’m writing on?

Do you know how many times

I’ve thought about writing about the paper I’m writing on?

I lost my liquid tongue for the wet pen

I have one mortal wish

I don’t even know where I’ve been

(In the basement, hugging the gas main)

Something’s been left out of this game

God, did you remember to render everything?

I’ve seen 1078 Sundays and

7 borders where the liquid meets land

I’ve even seen stars

Now where the fuck

Is anti-emptiness?

I’m leaking into stoned and severed existence

I’ve been consumed by my own breath

Change of face, shapeless

Personality switch, transformation

So impersonation of self leads

Crowds in twos to disintegration

Who’s in the basement choking a puppet on the pedestal?

Let a stool pigeon escort those who contort

Three doors down into the left door on the right hand side

My hand slides into pockets

Pull sockets of lead penalty

Orbs of red energy

Entering the orbit of the morbid

Northern and southern hemispheres of play capsule

Place time bombs and rose stems on your axle

Clear case

Hole in faded ozone layer of doom

Sphere of babylon shield

Towering above gravity

Taking up space in a residence of stars

A touching story of ungrateful velcro skulled boy

With his tored-off face

And the life-sized sacked marionette

He’d thought looked an awful lot like him

(with his time told and mildewed

Baby clothes of a business man.)

Jerk… wackoff slumped

And he’s tired, sick with bad posturing

One can’t hold in

Oh hell, there’s a king of jungle in him yet

Give our young lad middle of america’s valise

But spare the gauze, he’s losing poet by the gallon

Glory, Glory

Bottom of the quicksand’s gonna give him a

Whole lot less to think about

Than change that steel trap perspective would

Perhaps

I ain’t a scared no more, to make a' the difference

Stolen heart, and a whole wide world to blame

I’ve been

Living

In a record

Skipped filmstrip

I’m falling off the side of the boat

And when I hit water

I’m falling off the side of the boat

I fall asleep hoping

Tomorrow tastes like poems and honeysuckle

I move slow cause the sky looks bluer

When you fuck the order of the day

Or the way the shelves were meant to fit

I wish I had a pair of stilts to wear

While I play the flute in some

Light-traffic hallway in my old high school

But these are only threats to the seated self

Maybe Spain is the open-faced smile

From some life I saw in a movie

And always thought i’d live

Jackpot!

Congratulations!

Space is potent

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