The Chewing Machine by Ethan Lesley CC Lyrics
Most people here are monsters of biblical proportions
And what happens to them is what happens to monsters, eventually
They fall down by death or by beating, eventually
And that's a good thing for young monsters to read in
As they are getting tuckered at night
In their young monster beds by their aged monster caretakers,
Whispering,
Whimpering,
"He sounds good"
Sit by, sit still, sit crazy,
Everything happens for no reason,
Just as the tulip, too, burns by the lighter,
And so parables, wry, write themselves
In gallantry, permanence,
And portent penmanship
The nights are quiet, and persistent, and outsized,
Ever emptied
By hunching over computers like your sister's braided hair,
Somebody be my bedrock and silver-screened
Over whit and whiff, full of inebriation,
And satisfy this here party,
To make my rote soul less gunked, and timidly
Less themed for anathema, terribilità and
Oms
The world that glamorizes so much the social setups needs to stop shaming introverted people for functioning a hundred times better alone
"He sounds good," but you say it like you don't want to let flight
O', heavy the world, do let me forget about the mistakes from months ago, please, I command you
I want to dive headfirst to the Lethe so I wouldn't have to wake up cathartic and crying every MWF
The world is full of lonely people in denial doing
Lonely things to deny themselves of ever feeling, being, becoming
But I am a mortar, mortal, and I will chase you down with my bloodless knuckles
Until you're only bare of bones remaining
Collecting lovers like village stamps– they are my souvenir
Being a deadlier maggot than I already am– that is the promise I intend to keep
But it's so very much like me to body-shame myself
The magazines and their articles and influence that celebrate commercial success, entitled profit, eager rising in the work place has to be licked with the reality that people go through years of slumps and shouldn't be belittled for being in hushed places, spaces
If I sound good, if I doze good and ravage good, why can't those be enough?
I never want the end of hearing them complaining 'bout how when I talk, it dumbs them down
I have an uneven level of greed that I can tap into,
The underpromising skill
And I utilize it, for I am needy,
Kiddy for being interesting and intense because if you're not here, uber-caught in my webs of me,
Then what the hell are you doing, staring, being idle at my Renaissance-resonant mind?
If you don't recite my psalms with every inching of your footsteps,
If you aren't mesmerized by my steady and the way I roll my tongue,
If you don't kiss the ground dirtied my feet, dirty, and dirty trudges and trifles on,
What even is the point of you hearing what I have to say and how I say them?
See, it's so very much like me to intellectually belittle everybody else
The behemothe-like glass houses that archive so vehemently has to be drowned by the choir stunting how we want to be able to take back things we said 'bout some four hours, or days, or months, or years ago
"He sounds good, speaks only good, the only
Good thing about him"
Well, fucker, I guess that's because I've never held you steady
With my dismantling arms, and with my combative eyes that could strip
The undiplomatic matters of the world from your shoulders and your kneecaps,
Heavy with the sandalwoodest of our minutes,
Moments of nothing and of nobody, and of no rights nor wrongs from your past, and live
Because I will always,
Always
Take you just the way you are
In all your gentle flaws and your tide-chugging
Horrid and beauty
And so you, too, kiss the lips of the Mistress of Nihilism,
It takes practice and I
Have been kissing her for goddamn forever
O', what a lonely place that would be
To be stuck by me, held by me, plowed by me
Until our parting by the gates
And begging for things only when we're too overdressed
And it's way too late for all the skewered things we have left unaddressed
I don't just sound good– I am good!
And, wow, it really is so very much like me to be fighting for the unhealthy teams and themes nobody cares about
Damn our sans rivaline soul
Damn our circadian ugly
And what happens to them is what happens to monsters, eventually
They fall down by death or by beating, eventually
And that's a good thing for young monsters to read in
As they are getting tuckered at night
In their young monster beds by their aged monster caretakers,
Whispering,
Whimpering,
"He sounds good"
Sit by, sit still, sit crazy,
Everything happens for no reason,
Just as the tulip, too, burns by the lighter,
And so parables, wry, write themselves
In gallantry, permanence,
And portent penmanship
The nights are quiet, and persistent, and outsized,
Ever emptied
By hunching over computers like your sister's braided hair,
Somebody be my bedrock and silver-screened
Over whit and whiff, full of inebriation,
And satisfy this here party,
To make my rote soul less gunked, and timidly
Less themed for anathema, terribilità and
Oms
The world that glamorizes so much the social setups needs to stop shaming introverted people for functioning a hundred times better alone
"He sounds good," but you say it like you don't want to let flight
O', heavy the world, do let me forget about the mistakes from months ago, please, I command you
I want to dive headfirst to the Lethe so I wouldn't have to wake up cathartic and crying every MWF
The world is full of lonely people in denial doing
Lonely things to deny themselves of ever feeling, being, becoming
But I am a mortar, mortal, and I will chase you down with my bloodless knuckles
Until you're only bare of bones remaining
Collecting lovers like village stamps– they are my souvenir
Being a deadlier maggot than I already am– that is the promise I intend to keep
But it's so very much like me to body-shame myself
The magazines and their articles and influence that celebrate commercial success, entitled profit, eager rising in the work place has to be licked with the reality that people go through years of slumps and shouldn't be belittled for being in hushed places, spaces
If I sound good, if I doze good and ravage good, why can't those be enough?
I never want the end of hearing them complaining 'bout how when I talk, it dumbs them down
I have an uneven level of greed that I can tap into,
The underpromising skill
And I utilize it, for I am needy,
Kiddy for being interesting and intense because if you're not here, uber-caught in my webs of me,
Then what the hell are you doing, staring, being idle at my Renaissance-resonant mind?
If you don't recite my psalms with every inching of your footsteps,
If you aren't mesmerized by my steady and the way I roll my tongue,
If you don't kiss the ground dirtied my feet, dirty, and dirty trudges and trifles on,
What even is the point of you hearing what I have to say and how I say them?
See, it's so very much like me to intellectually belittle everybody else
The behemothe-like glass houses that archive so vehemently has to be drowned by the choir stunting how we want to be able to take back things we said 'bout some four hours, or days, or months, or years ago
"He sounds good, speaks only good, the only
Good thing about him"
Well, fucker, I guess that's because I've never held you steady
With my dismantling arms, and with my combative eyes that could strip
The undiplomatic matters of the world from your shoulders and your kneecaps,
Heavy with the sandalwoodest of our minutes,
Moments of nothing and of nobody, and of no rights nor wrongs from your past, and live
Because I will always,
Always
Take you just the way you are
In all your gentle flaws and your tide-chugging
Horrid and beauty
And so you, too, kiss the lips of the Mistress of Nihilism,
It takes practice and I
Have been kissing her for goddamn forever
O', what a lonely place that would be
To be stuck by me, held by me, plowed by me
Until our parting by the gates
And begging for things only when we're too overdressed
And it's way too late for all the skewered things we have left unaddressed
I don't just sound good– I am good!
And, wow, it really is so very much like me to be fighting for the unhealthy teams and themes nobody cares about
Damn our sans rivaline soul
Damn our circadian ugly