ORGONE LYRICS

1. Lessons Of Mesopotamia (The Century Of Filth)

He taught lessons of Mesopotamian ziggurats, sperm whales and the Hollow Earth
theory. It didn't remove the gleaming crack house districts or take the urine
out of the county pool. He tried only to counter the immeasurable cruelty which
lounged so permanently on their devoured lives. In retrospect, he looked
ridiculous. He knew that their only escape was to sacrifice the tarnished half
of their bodies, like frantic earthworms weighed down by a rusting school bus.
They must leave their intolerable half behind, proclaim its death in the wet
fertilizer and sprout a renewed half out of their severed outline, one worthy
of honor and form. He found grown-men twirling glittering ladybug wands,
speaking in fabricated excitement, their condescending efforts swallowed like a
cellphone in quicksand. They spoke in the language of wounded lion giggles and
horse grins. Their bodies were submerged in grotesque oranges. To him, this was
the clear mark of the hideous life, of the domesticated labrador, who sees
everything and does nothing. His students, who rivaled Encyclopedia Brown in
poindexterian innocence, were covered in poison oak and surrounded his feet
like fleshy, neglected lighthouses in a sordid, boatless isle. The inspired
eighth readings of "On Beyond Zebra" and the accountants from Cloud Bank who
taught them checkbook balancing. All of their teeth became whitened with the
vanquishing ray of Gott's light. Their crown shakras, chewed like purple cud
into a misshapen wreath, carried by a mall elf, who spent his paycheck on him,
himself and the cavernous void. He absorbed life's tasteless nectar through a
straw of spider bites and mounting discontent. He understands that all he
really has is a ceramic trinket of a flying bluejay, which will maintain its
shape long beyond his death, but it ironically remains, like him: petrified in
flight. He knows that the knights of his time have fallen dead asleep in a
prairie, intoxicated by cheap gin, with a "Picture it" over their faces,
entranced by the cardboard lure of the Congo or any place, other than the true
panoramic atrocity. Colleagues smell like opened magic markers and overwhelming
soap, read novels about distressed starving sailors, retreat to the pantry and
stuff their faces, leaving crumbs for the oarsmen between the unread pages. He
lives in the century of filth, in the era of the boisterous head-hunters. After
his classes, he found the fern and hedge clippings in his backyard, which
formed a strange, organic wigwam. He laid at their base, his jaw immobilized by
the tension and backlit by three chemtrails which formed a triangle. He reached
upwards and clinked it like a preschooler. When he awoke, he sensed his new,
grotesque dimensions and manifested his anger into the Goliath form, to
comprehend his shadow self.

2. The Goliath (Drained Trough Of Resistance)

A fifteen foot high Goliath, dangles roadkill from his pilgrim belt, fingers
soaked in party glitter and petroleum. The sweat of the Earth's anxiety,
summoned from the roof of Agharti, propelling his boots to a field of recycled
mattresses. The Book of Failure is tied to his swollen legs, confounding
accounts of miscalculation and misfortune, covered in paper tulips. Wearing his
shoes to bed, he realizes that a barefoot walk in the dark, feels as blinding
and disorienting as four thousand flourescent lamps focused on the right
retina. It reminds him of an abortion speech in high school, ending at seven
minutes with his uncontrollable shaking and the phrase "uneffected fetal
matter". He twitched like a beetle crushed with a thesaurus. "Suffering: The
Musical" is better from the audience. The pudgy principle's cackling penetrates
your eardrum until your brain becomes stripped, bubbled pizza and your
emblazened spirit tumbles to absolute zero. The three-fingered carpenter in the
second aisle, becomes a reverse giraffe, his neck and crown, sunken and
surrendered to the staleness of the floor. The sultry leads sign the playbill
in used purple crayons and caligraphy pens. The Goliath sleeps in the vibrant,
sacred lands of the discarded Lakota tribe, next to the drive-thru strip bar,
guarded by witch stakes and spears which we once called fences, in an effort
toward eloquence. He has raised communities of gray, emaciated figures who
morph, like fifteen cent foam dinosaurs, from human expressions, into
murmuring, terrified afterthoughts. Muzzled and wandering in the county Zoo, in
suits of styrofoam armor, their eyes glow nuclear.

3. The Levitating Chandelier

They hide in the buffalo bluffs of the Pacific Ocean, where they lie in
circles, covered in sacks of opened rice, as vampiric seahawks tear open their
shirt pockets and they weep in the sand, willingly caught in the swarm of life.
His enforcement was elegant: "If you wish to live...surrender and tumble into
brittle ecstasy. Make your breaths desperate, make your steps quiet, my
footprints are trenches in which you have fallen." His master lives in a castle
of blue dairy crates that read: "Thou shalt not steal". The pine sapplings
around the estate packed their belongings into duffle bags and proclaimed "This
is no place to grow". As the Goliath sits with his master at the gathering of
giants, the levitating chandelier in the blue crate castle, flickers briefly
into his glass of muddy water.

4. Bamboo Cannons (Loaded With Dust)

And he recalls his prior life, when he chipped at glaciers with yellow pencils,
expected minor cracks to reveal the stern invitation of the ocean. Then, when
we wore the capes of water and salt, he cursed in all foulness at his own
persistence. Nine faces appear in the reflection, as harmless as bamboo
cannons, loaded with dust. Nine demons of corruption and transgression,
reflections of his new self, manifested as his nine foot extension into
immortal power. And from a desk of nine-volt batteries, the master relays his
manifesto: Law, the eternal oubliette. The acid twirls like a neighborhood
jumprope as the committee applauds. In the pauses between the clapping, he
feels flashes of dissent, the unsentimental urge to stretch his limbs and
disintegrate into eternal expansion. The part of him that sensed the
fundamental crookedness of life. Stuttering to himself again: "No engineered
solutions, only toppled institutions."

5. Vowelic Drone

[Instrumental]

6. Vomited Hyacinths (First Act Of Beauty)

Exiting the convention, with arms crossed on a parapet of peat moss, he looms
over the grizzly scene of his former hunting grounds. The branches hiss a
hanging hex of leaves and bark, guarding the ground and sky. He finds an
abandoned home off the old state road, with rusted orange and brown farm tools
complimented by the fading family portraits of Dr. Ulysses S. Woolstrom and a
pastel painting of a blonde-haired Jesus, reminiscent of an aspiring Hitler
youth, brandishing a rocket launcher and the stern porcelain luster. Everywhere
there is a noise that seeps like coastal floodwater, which make his eyes focus
on the patterned saw edges and scithes. But the distracting external static is
overpowered by a spiraling and calming inner hum to which he surrenders. A
vowelic drone soothes his soul as he sheds his diamond axe, a relic of his
reluctant second birth. The memories are exhumed. He whispers: "Insanity is the
apprentice of wisdom". It has contorted, injured, ridiculed and betrayed him,
until collapsing into exhaustion. And yet now, in his terrifying awakening, he
cherishes its focus and brutal healing. It has empowered his beakless half,
which was plunged into the company volcano by history's pimpled, bullying face.
He rode the prototype rollercoaster, a vessel crudely bound in yellowing
masking tape and cupboard screws. He separated from the copper track and met
the decrepit conductor at the bottom of the hill. He saw himself. And then,
through a spray-painted window, he faintly saw the ceramic blue jay break from
its plaster and begin its baptismal flight. With a single flutter of its wing,
he evaporated, shedding all form. He flew from a restrained Victorian balcony
and collected armies in his hands, turning paid mercenaries into skinny,
red-faced orators. He swam laps in rural water towers, mimicking the collision
of ocean and rain. Every unseen chamber of torture was unearthed, as a flurry
of elegant cows trampled bank vaults and unrecognized slaves projected diaries
into the skyline, naming names. Wealthy self-help gurus, flamboyant princes and
demented occultists vomited hyacinths, revolted by their first act of beauty.
Missile silos refused the emerging freedom, firing cylindrical rounds which
landed on themselves. The tops of helicopters turned into ceiling fans,
relieving the arid desert and obelisks crumbled into snowballs, which women
pelted at their senators. With delight, he watched his final lesson unravel.







ORGONE LYRICS