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Poem originally published March 2015 in "Fuck You, You Don't Know Me: A Memoir" by Brando Chemtrails.

lyrics

Word is, if you're running— not from acquaintances but from strangers— when your license plate is a bullseye and your name a K-9 Unit whistle and the distance between you and some sort of safety is many hours to kill... drive faster than the road signs tell you to. Everyone knows the speed limit's for old people and fugitives so unless you're both, break it at the same pace as everyone else.

Because everyone's a criminal, it's just a matter of degree and if you're acting like you're not one, then you're one with something to hide. Everybody's convict material for the shit that they've done, but some of us get to hang on to our street clothes for a while.

What some might call a repeat offender, I call someone that’s been watched by professionals like prospectors panning for gold. What some might call a law-abiding citizen, I call someone with better blinds. There's no more secure line of work than living off the misdeeds of others, especially when your list of don'ts grows with every passing business day. Look close enough in anyone's closet or basement or trunk and you'll find something you can't forgive, the only question is how long you’ll be at it before moving onto more tried and true hunting grounds.

We act like pretty cathedrals are the only relics left from the days that cardinals ate banquets off silver plates paid for with the indulgence fees and get out of hell bribes of serf on serf crime. Like our own roads and fountains and fireworks displays weren’t paid for in part with the traffic tickets and wage garnishments of the unruly and astray. Like the made in America tag on the back of your shirt wasn't someone else's forced good work doled out by men that look like priests in buildings that look like temples, then served in places with penitence in the name.

At least the church was ready to believe in the possibility of someone living thirty three years without breaking a single rule in their motel cabinet sized book, but the bishops of law are not so forgiving... their bibles are a whole lot heavier and aren't done being written yet. Some people look for an end to crime by putting their faith in those who'd be out of work if it stopped, others learn the art of pious, of loyal, of invisible, of wasn't me, of what seems to be the matter officer?, of guilty, your honor, of whatever it takes not to wind up decoration for a cell bed or mortuary slab for no other crime than being human.

But those who’ve zoomed to the top in machines that run on sin will not ditch their ride just because everyone decides to behave. After all of the place's it's taken them so far, why the fuck would they walk like the rest of us? When killers and predators can't be found, they'll find beggars and hustlers and red tape scorners, create a hundred new laws then wonder why they wind up with a hundred thousand new criminals. Blame it on the TV, the families, not enough art or beatings in school, the serpent, the wickedness of man… anything but their own thirsty tank that runs on human fuel. You can't talk an engine run on sin into sparing you, cannot guilt it with a sad story it already knows damn well as the story of a job well done. The creature that feasts on our indiscretions will eat well for as long we both live. There is no negotiating with forces that are hungry and count you as prey, there is no such thing as safety for as long as they survive.

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from Dance Music For The Condopocalypse, released July 19, 2014

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騒動

all tracks recorded live, performed under many names.
I began playing back in '96 by recording strange sounds, looping and manipulating the tapes and running the output through effects pedals.
If you download and you like it, please consider a donation to go toward new equpiment/projects. <3
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