ARSON RECORD
arson Record was composed, performed, engineered, and produced by bitcorrputer
recorded and mixed at corrupt bit studio
mastered by greg mindorff at suite sound labs
this album would not have been possible without the love and support of my wife and family, my son, all my friends and people who i have played with across the years
The Empire
I don’t have present tense. There’s ghosts in the machine. They fit through sprocket gaps and wrench into the workings. The gears still turn away. Can you remember when all this was new? A mighty excitement? And one took a ride on a bicycle byproduct pedalling backwards for fun. You were stuck just exactly where you belonged. Don’t look to future tense. Checks bounce and clocks rust out. Empires are testaments, they burn when they are old. The buildings waste away. Can you remember when all this was new? A mighty excitement? And one day you turned to a digital byproduct, back-pedalled, stride, and strode on. Can you remember when you were stuck just exactly where you belonged? Can you remember when you were stuck where you were all along? I don’t have past tense now. It left when the drive failed. Crossed wires and circuit shorts, syntax capacity, omits and fades away.
The Ice Maker
I still feel a fire in the soul after five ex-septennial. Brought to you in whole or incremental by creditor despots. Their goal is just to get to you. Cast a vote to the kleptomaniacs. Touching themselves as they talk in bible verse. The spoils of liberty sliced just like that. Sliced just like that. Just like all those junkies jittering. Just like all these invested sects injecting industry. Look at all their voting records. Look at all the frozen feet of frequent flyers. Fixing fines and finely dining. Lusting for stock. The ticker tape talks on. I see total lost control while the hoarders hover on the fence. I see rigid right angle regiments. A fix should hit the spot so the hollow can’t get to you. Stand and applaud for the cast of plutocrats. Between bites of bile they bloviate. Oil and military might is like that. Might is like that. Just like all those junkies jittering. Just like all these injector sects ingest intravenously. Look at all their arson records. Look at all the fastened frantic firm and frigid. Feeling fine but finally dying. Expiry dates on the parking lots and lawns. I still know a chill in the sole and my feet feel the miles pile on. Greeted daily with exoskeleton. So land here and be caught, the cold is going to get to you. They roll over and end it on their backs. Every death on the ice is like that. Legs in curl and body void of slack. Every death is like that. Just like all those June bugs jittering. Just like all those insects walk out on the ice and never leave. Just like all their avail for antifreeze. Just like all the frantic flies, feet frozen. Fastened firm and frigid. Faces festered. Stuck at the surface, shackled and padlock drawn.
The Whitewasher
Logos, pitch and stain, are commerce. Drips and drops and labour salt the earth. Volatile organic compound clouds rain down deficit. One life’s worth. I’ve got viscous vile in my veins, solvent skin and fear of falling. Bound by hydrocarbon chains, enamel coatings cover me. I’ve got latex lining my lungs, polymers and lacquer spraying, climbing cost and ladder rungs. I coat structures to ply a trade. Chomp at the bitumen bit by bit by bit. They’re not even a little bit human at all. Every barrel smells something sinister. It’s refined to pit slash windfall. I see some folks churning out fines, insolvency and a fear of failing. Bonded debt, notation lies, look at all the dollar signs. I’ve got quarts of quarters remains. Dividends from the social strainer. Climbing corporate ladder rungs. I coat structures and I’m ashamed. It’s called freedom. A number in an account. And it’s all you’ve really got until it gets deleted. It’s called reason. A debt you pay ahead. The derivatives you spawn will eat or be deflated. It’s called freedom. I bet I have more than you. But it feels like I have none. Like I can’t afford it. It’s called treason. They sing to paper notes till the donors all go home, slam the vault and hoard it. Are you in production? Are you barely getting by? Are you in hysterics? Laughing all the way to congress, or the bank, or boardroom? Who could tell the difference? All there is to do is sit and count the billfolds.
The Luminary
Here is the gift I give to you. Merely an organ the rift comes through. So make music while it beats blood red. A pulse-like sine wave. The eyes are like water and sunk like I was lead. From the inside, we want you here. Decided and clearly. The luminary. Look at them all. How they’re grasping at dignity, stripping her bare on the perforate line. In an error, fixated anxiety rips at the fabric of uncertain times. What a great inheritance. Spring forth and let us pine for you. Be written to the statutes, or incendiary device. From the inside, I need you here to hold so dearly. The luminary. Please come inside. I want you here to hold so dearly. Decided and clearly, the luminary shines on through me. Will the radiation trickle down? The money never does but the bombs rain down in torrents. Will the degradation chew the crowns and crumble them to artifacts on the shores and in the currents? Will the hold be handled and the tinder kept dry, so the fire can keep him warm when the torch is handed over? Will he walk in the warm sand, hands clasped in love, with the same joy that I knew when I met you?
The Landlord
We don a really swell title. It’s self imposed but all’s fine, the neighbours don’t seem to mind. The laundry list of complaints on the walls of the room, management signed so you know they loom. I don’t know what makes a person turn roach and just go inject its infection. Not Kafkaesque! Who hits the pipe real hard all day for three trimesters? First born still birthed out and blistered. You can call the cops but don’t bother, they’ll come and go. The landlord can hear you and she’s going to know. You can strike a match and get hotter, remember though, the landlord is with you and she’s going to know. You can let the flat to the lessors. They’re lesser and so improperly the property sublets. You should go gas up the mattress and drive off slow. The windscreens obscured with a bunch of snow. You’re an evicted slum squatter, as mad as two neurotics shoved into the same framed photo. You could go catch a hot dose or get found in the water, face down all bloated and decomposed. You can call the cops but don’t bother, they’ll never show. The landlord is in here and she’s going to know. You can strike a match and get hotter, remember though, the landlord is in you and she’s going to know. What will you take when the fire is tamed? Let’s sift through the charred remains. Who’s going to know?
The Balanced Stone. It must just be so easy to be the breeze carving at the rocks face. Come for a walk please. One foot in front of the other. The air chips away, the water cuts deeper, a balanced rock remains. Every canyon we’ll ever know, carved in stone. Every canyon we’ll ever know will just erode. It must have been so easy to speak to me as if I had no feelings. A coma walking. One word towards another. Two feet inside the grave. Three moments must be for the river runs dry. Every canyon we’ll ever know, carved in stone. Every canyon we’ll ever know will just erode. It has to be so easy to stand and lie. A pivot holding up it’s end of the bargain. One hand grasps. Another tribute to tributaries. The riverbed ridden with other wise-men’s obituaries. Every canyon we’ll ever know will just erode and swallow bones while ashes blow from balanced stones.
The Veil
Can you feel the warmth demanding a commandment? Crawl into it. The hold of a restless progress, the fuel and spark in the furnace. Fix the witches to their posts and pose to praise the alignment. The eclipse must see a sacrifice. The embers swallow the sagebrush and blend with the light of the city views. Through the clouds that cover you through and through it looks like the blood moon. On one side of the bed in the mattress, a depression. That’s how life is. Through the clouds the abyss peers into you. It looks like the blood moon through the veil. A home on a hill. A season sits in between sun scorched summers and the crisp fall air. Don’t roam to the fade at the gardens edge. The rift in instrument, please don’t fret for it. Just stare into this living room window. The glow beyond the gloom, it looks like the blood moon. Through the veil it looks like the blood moon.
The Container
Drawn to the container a prized paragon. When it all pours out I will stumble on. For a whole iteration I lost myself. Hit the shore at a pinnacle and receded again. The lights go out like stagnants do. Think of all the things that you could do. Think of all the things that you could see if you wanted to. Think of all the things you could undo. Think of all the things you could put back but never do. Drain from the container, consume and spew. When you get poured out I will follow you through a hole in the basin. I found myself split and spilled at the institute. Why not waste away? Windows blow out and candles too. Think of all the things that you could do. Think of all the things that you could build but you never do. Think of all the things you could undo. Think of all the things you used to have to hold on to. At every turn I don’t blow out. That is who I am. Locked by design, the clasp and bolt. I won’t go out again. Without restraint, the sparks can turn and subsidize the flame. The will to burn sings silently the sound of debris. They don’t go out, the flames just lose the will to burn. The sound of debris as it hit the rocks sang silently.
