mom, thanks for allowing me the space and opportunities to figure out what makes me happiest. kind of sorry that thing turned out to be making rap music but here we are. my big brother taught me how to read and this is what i did with it.
released January 4, 2017
1. shit. everything we have together is falling apart. (additional vocals by joc) 2. paper cups ft. collasoul structure and annie burns 3. play nice pt. 1 ft. jacquain (prod. by analog(ue) tape dispenser and dying stars) 4. play nice pt. 2 5. skies ft. SKECH185 6. closing in 7. small child fire ft. delaney becker (produced by a.m. breakups, contains of elements gift horse by cara beth satalino) 8. paper plates ft. angel katz 9. even the king wants to kill the king. (prod. by dos4gw and aoi, additional vocals by delaney becker and collasoul structure) 10. willie manuel 11. ex-girlfriend haiku (additional vocals by annie burns) 12. emily, panic. (additional vocals by lt. headtrip) 13. no funerals (additional vocals by delaney becker)
All songs produced by Justin "Analog(ue) Tape Dispenser" Schaefer except where noted. Lyrics and vocals written and performed by Lamon Manuel. (FASTING CANNIBAL Music ASCAP) except where noted. Recorded and mixed by Sean Owens at Lounge Fidelity in Chicago. Mastered by Paul "Willie Green" Womack at The Greenhouse in New York.
SKECH185 (SKECH185 Music ASCAP)
Collasoul Structure (ROBO WRITES MUSIC ASCAP)
Artwork by Meri Karhu
Layout by Angela Davis Fagan
Track Name: Shit. Everything We Have Together is Falling Apart.
it's okay to eat women 'cause they don't have any feelings.
this is shit. past mourning the corpse pulled from his wrist. four hundred days malaise craving apathetic bliss. now the rumor mill's working like the facts aren't laughable. he's either agoraphobic or a fasting cannibal. half-clad in hubris' half-truths but mostly over it. built this throne of bones and shit to burn until she notices. the hole of his logical solders broken ribs for lovers to watch the smiles widen like a shark's trailing a cutter. and couplets are knuckle dusters when a vice is avoided 'cause a face full of blow makes the brain much too buoyant. disappointment had a name and a language 'til tax claimed them. today it walks the city spouting pull-string catch phrases. like, "pour me another before the lapses replay." and "my mother's praying hands are just another cliché." so he's walking 'round bullets claiming near death keepsakes 'cause exit wounds bloom faster than cancer can keep pace with shit.
last mourning for this corpse of a rib. so he python jaws liliths to see which one'll fit again. wrong myth. wrong miss. never liked her. he's either a bad muse or he should fuck better writers. or settle for bedding biters. best excuse for why he slept late. no sweat. check his demeanor's just as shallow as his chest plate. headaches like black funerals. so flashy, grand and glutton. and it's laugh track suitable how his form fancies function. for peers pulling punch-ins, the kitschiest struggle was how to jazz june cooler when blackface turned subtle. and chitterling circuit uncles claimed stars like southern crosses to spawn agnostic genres like rakim and daniel johnston. caution. this is music for men raised to be widowers. clocks tick inconsistent to count the minutes of missing her. in third person, burning a church full of listeners. shit isn't hers. it's work to stretch the purse of a minute's worth.
Track Name: Paper Cups ft. Collasoul Structure & Annie Burns
"this next song is a song about writing this song." -eyedea
this next song is a song about writing this song. this next song is a song about vikings with blogs. this next song is a song about biking in prague. this next song is a song about wifing a P.A.W.G.
Lamon Manuel: i want to facefuck a scientologist. i mean, the bible's science fiction with a whisper of common sense. if this choreographed panic attack isn't on beat then when played backwards it's death threats for allan greenspan. dirty syringes in the wingspan. kill them with hugs. pin the scalp on the scalped while he's freestyling blood. one-punch meth piñata, odds you're full of drugs. these are not punchlines. i am fishing for lungs. call it black magic eugenics or disciplined burning. or sysphus laughs when i bitch about pushing thirty. early bird to worm, "altruism isn't alpha-like." so when this crown writes sounds like i think i'm albert pike and worth my weight in unread books. spook at the bar, nursing maker's and bedlam. jetsam the left hand sacrificial offering for mutual stalking daydreams of shannyn sossamon through missed called from rob, "did you finish that verse yet?" nope, my catalog's full of promising first steps. worm heart quintet in a brown shark playpen. top tier weird outsourcing the spartan phalanx. i'd love to sharpen my knuckles on the face of a date rapist while survivors take bets on how many places his jaw breaks in. seven. gil, i don't know what the fuck happened. i wrote this on the hollowed skull of a luck dragon in pigeon shit. i juggernaut through whiskey sips and pop violence screaming “team edward scissorkicks!” pistol whip rahm or obama. coin flip tells. the other's getting A.I.D.S., oxytocin and stem cells. starter kit for a nobel prize winning hope fetish while i fuck sasha grey's shadow bow-legged. (if she wants to.)
this next song is a song about writing this song. this next song is a song about vikings with blogs. this next song is a song about biking in prague. this next song is a song about wifing a P.A.W.G.
Collasoul Structure: asiatic man, vince mcmhahon struts to the bar. i'll have the wee heavy. dressed like he's bout to play the guitar, step out a pink chevy. no one told me reach for the stars so my girl's screen ready. cleans daily, loves my art, and she's always magazine spreading. otis redding sing king and queen on my cheap bedding. old fashioned wrassling. y'all actin like y'all ain't seen belly. bam niggalow, bootiful britt. the tag team besties. finishing move pedophile shredding fogyle's deep webbing. after letting parents elbow 'em 'til it doesn't matter. throw chairs at 'em, jump from ladders and rolling thunder splash 'em. then hang out with a club at tavern. talk bespoke with crackers and how my gingham can fuck up patterns. call me button masher. man, don't you hate those mista don't play clothes. unless i'm beer pimping on my shrimping boat and stagecoach. tried to tone it down but warehouse liquor's on the way home. few bombers float around. i'm visiting the nigga late show.
wave your hands if your home needs wrecking and your self-esteem's lower than the balance in my checking.
Track Name: Play Nice Pt. 1 ft. Jacquain
the best of us don't give a fuck. we just play nice.
i dipped my pen in pig's blood. signed my life and its labor over to unchaste women on the business ends of hangers. no thanks, sir. i'll take male privilege and march proudly. god's image has a dick and fears no dark alley's consent. i catcall bullets and angels hum along, drowning elevator music rape whistle culling songs. no piercing deaf ears 'til rosie rivets prostate check-ups. forgot that feminism is not just tipping strippers extra. disconnect us. barefoot contessa stepford fetish burning bra drawbridge is faux leftist. so coquettish. it jetsets measurements sketched to pro-ana's choosing coincidence and corsets cropped by cameras licking tumors. so much ruin in the subtext of an eyelash. face of ginger immolation. save the steaks for salem typecasts. and when rape gives you lemons call the seed it sews a savior. a gloryhole myth to make the bastard less an anchor.
that's in your favor.
Track Name: Play Nice Pt. 2
before ritual suicide and d.i.y. castration lies a company line forced apology for the male gaze. it pantomimes patience with baited guesswork, convinced chivalry stalemates. and every woman spreads like mary mallon for cold war courtship and straight line labyrinths' serenade of safe words. grace as a lapsed flag. convenient moments of silence while miles plays the backhand. praxis is a shark scrum mouthing swans wingless. crematory of period-stained glass beaches. arc of leeches charming whatever's in its teeth. sweat as a line of defense against consensus. roman altars to thirteen. subtitled upskirt scenes. argus-eyed cast dream part libertine-worthy. indentured dutch. wolf bait lux. plain jane shamed harpies' stag film credit invites to a pegging key party.
what the fuck did i agree to?
Track Name: Skies ft. SKECH185
SKECH185: cosmic mother titty twist a civil fiction. lick the blade. silver tongue sparked the convo. this is my acknowledgement of the box i hover over hanging from a pretty harpy. slipping past spotlights like that's icon bound partly taught by the artsy backlashes that bat lashes at my hearty, confusing music.
Lamon Manuel: this is not about my lovelife. what’s it about? how jesus pissed bud ice, trigger fingered pin-ups and brought a lycan to a gunfight. siphoning my white friends for bias to keep real. i’m a lion picking crucifixes out of his teeth still.
SKECH185: imagine a savage dragom laughing at the onslaught of a murder of flannel whose handle is a crust punks trust fund prize in a brawl of love tapping. teeth role? pigeon holed butterfly knife. wrenched flesh gripping scarred knuckles. chuckling at the advancing. there is no "modern romance!" instead is mannequin peopled with spiders. puppet frame engaged in handling hearts. trump cards threading escapist babbling. the subtitles survived the bleeding so we're weaving guillotine basket for dreaming american. pelting white sheets at fun at mixed marriages in honor of the embarrassment. i'm not preaching. just an autobot transformed into a chariot for the heathens. shattering "cool" with a john henry one up the machine. cheesing, leaving a legend save a wife watching him fade as the sky eats him. he failed to do the garage rock jig that would satiated the grafted. found it more important to raise his fist at the sun amplifying its graphic. now is that juneteenth to a hipster? C-4 in fanny pack when it's millennial dirge that inhabits mother nature's bragging about her lack of gagging. upsold in obscurity for a splash of passion. refashioned to be fastened to a fashion where only the half hearted find purity.
Lamon Manuel: you can feed 'em force in courses gorge and swallow the timid or blow a mushroom cloud kiss and tell 'em cholera did it. this is no parade for corpses, operetta of gimmicks score to whistle at white women all in honor of emmitt. john henry vs. kismet. laying vertebrae as spikes. fisting disrespect surplus through invertebrates alike. life walks like arthritis. learned to talk and flaunt like it, chasing a pearl necklace from king midas. but even the king wants to kill the king. monarch butterfly knife. this is second nature's race to pistol tag his blindside. this slit wrist theremin pitch shifts hunger pains from altruistic cynics feeding clipped wings to runaways. summer came and went but the truth is i’d rather fail or cut my teeth on the thick skulls of alpha males or the crow-bearing head of the hydra. my coat of arms is a monkey knife fight for who gets the better typewriter.
Track Name: Small Child Fire ft. Delaney Becker
cannibalism is the highest form of flattery. when your ex threatens tori lux it's just cordiform apathy. peacocking a smile. my distrust promised us common law fence-sitting the broom through a drive-by live piranha toss. an eye for an eye is fun to watch 'til the eyeless unionize and aim their guns at applause. propose a small child fire race or candle lighted face to exorcise the cold with emo camel spider bait. let's make schizophrenia cool again. mechanically separate oprah and try to mold her human again. a cosby sweater away from camouflage boule and operation taste makers fed nazi veteran taint. cristobal walking or riding? sloth or moorish science? toothbrush shank the pope pray to every god it slides with. i'm elliott smith's chestplate. chumming stress bait. dystopian swansong score to black widow sextapes.
it's a small child fire. bring the kids.
cannibalism cured the height of human vanity between tori lux's retirement and google tapped phone camera feeds. peacocking carcinogens my wasp god's a glutton. obama got a pig heart transplant to prove he's not muslim. no wisdom tooth deadweight. checked next to martyrdom. my chain alternates between shark's teeth and blogger thumbs. blessed be the book of hook, chorus, scarification, pro-euroeroticism and h.h. holmes graveshifts. i love you for the way you impersonate joanna angel on camera in line for the first amero wearing the jones pelt of a billionaire. casting hemmingway: the musical. shotgun as a woodwind. sitting bitch between the shark my girl jumped and brooklyn. gone fisting in the mouth of a cheshire tiger or lady dead space raven bathed in a cocaine pyre. offered my body weight in bacon and a dowry of bottled ire to chase living a liver lighter into a small child fire.
Track Name: Paper Plates ft. Angel Katz
have i ever told you the story of the white panhandler who told me to go back to africa? that shit reminds me of rap.
i been getting money.
when you're depressed it goes couch, bar(s), bed.
i been getting money. where the fuck you been? bought real estate in an imaginary place just to fuck you in.
Track Name: Even the King Wants to Kill the King
what doesn't kill you better give me my fucking money back.
bitch at the top of the boat to you. rumor says he's dead but his new dutch knows voodoo. slack feminist. fin depressed roulette: one skull, two moods. excised his telling nine-eleven jokes too soon. but i made my first billion selling bin laden finger puppets. spent on matching holzer tattoos and white rappers' recording budgets. find what you kill and let it love you. hack it to chum for shark bait and live with its ghost screaming, "fuck you!" wanted: thor's hammer or corpse banter or serpent grip. medusa head on me like i'm perseus. cause: caution. horseman: candor. safe word: wrath. romance is not an option when your kink's husks hollowed for tarot ashes. o' patron saint of panic. labor pain-waved atlantic new church of downcat prayers to my fish wired casket. o' lordship of nerve ends when purpose makes the sun of you. trust's measured in how much coke someone's comfortable doing in front of you.
or praise the lord and pass the opiates. one skydive at a time of guessing over/under dosages. simulacra cobra kiss. still look for you in crowds of you. down the barrel or through a rifle scope now. tout harvest of pathetics. edit with hammer to horse head. find where she rests. leave your collarbone on doorstep. organ corset sworn in on a deck death cards. carousel of anemics' hotel beds to death march. my lower self's a straightedge dynamite trifling bitch fisherman. legend reads of cut teeth pinning floorboards off hammersmith. d.i.y. embalming. godspeed how the liver works. pop-up lyric books would throw knives and kink scenes at the listeners. have you ever born a portcullis court of borderline rapist offhand fencing six cancers to scored looped black embryo tasings? (no.) nepotism only kills earnhardts, son. i've sired shrapnel. my tattoos are an anagram of a love letter to stoya's asshole.
hi, i'm lamon. i don't like anything. hi, i'm lamon. bronzed pious and elite. hi, i'm lamon. the reason white women drink. hi, i'm lamon. even the king wants to kill the king.
Track Name: Willie Manuel
it goes papa burned his face off so i don't want to work a day job. purged a third of his nerves and all i learned was fuck a day job. slight gap between our likeness rained ash and turned my collar black. so i laugh when i get mistaken for a college grad. he was glass, brass and grease stains. three siblings to divide us and a wife. health slipped. schlitz pissing convenient pious. every newport was a lit prayer wrenched 'til cysts were timeless. golden days eighties baby raised by an arthritic midas' thousand tongues carping "hey, eight-year-old, you'll never be shit!" tucked away agape when he sees the women that i sleep with. 'cause sons fuck. antoine's got five my proof is past due. i'm carrion for vultures. my brother's a gang tattoo. anchored anger in his passed blues blooms and he sees it. clip and scale in the closet turned marine. willie beaming. now the shadow that i sleep in is nine years my elder. conception spawned his lockjaw on a bed of nails and failures. like, this is how failed braille works. this is how the frail burn at thirty-seven when your father does the day your second son's born.
all we ever wanted. our fathers, not an altar. bloodspun specter home of culling mississippi water.
Track Name: Ex-Girlfriend Haiku
your girlfriend doesn't love you if she doesn't try to steal your clothes.
yes, i want to know
if the sex is better but
only if it's not.
Track Name: Emily, Panic.
chest plate like a single playing card vs. nazi paraphernalia in the basement of my favorite bar. no shark tooth rosary or tiger striped crow's feet. no marilyn monroe quotes for men's self-harm jonesing. come for the bloodletting. please. stay for the funeral. dowry of family limbs lost to cancer. mine in a cubicle. rock paper midwest girl's lip curl. phone lit boredom. all apologies like trampled swan eggs or for them. adam, i know that look. it's heartpulp in a vacuum. i make it when i wake and spill tooth chum in the bathroom. backwards this play for a cookbook of undetectable poisons: bitch, butterflies, chaos, state lines and a new boyfriend. this is the sound of your organs forming a sleeper cell. one long line of coke. two one-dollar bills. swear choking isn't weird with the right lastborn daughter. wanton stay-at-home father bleeding in the dishwater.
chest plate like a one-stamp passport. spill clockwork blood. my gut's lined for glass hoarding. kink hysteria. all scenarios are worst case. and you don't love her if you wouldn't slash her tires on her birthday. but all i need is faye reagan's first anal interracial scene. all i need is a black girl to listen to cage with me. all i need is a transcontinental bridge and every iphone six to be sweatshop labor-free. hex choir. suicide net pyre. vase shard beeline march of seven-legged spiders. gingerblood pill. black bird gut spill. cutting board right thigh. pound of flesh buzzkill. newly fucking blonde. bonfire done. keep her. never trust a big butt and a bitchy resting face either. cue twitch choreography plume coursing a left hand. she kissed like a guillotine. no concern for where my head lands.
chest plate like a breakup gape experience. pre-delirium fix. first brick of this downcat pyramid. my safe word: late apology. hers is sober indecision. lacuna churn in my skull. a mouthfucked jehovah's witness is only worth her weight in minutes, indifference and piston stingers if drink, ring and foreplay are all four fingers. come for the at-home tooth removal. maybe stay for the mercy kill. rasputin understudy. nothing between us but a serpent field. p.s. a better bone engraved attempt at coaxing ravens to maybe remain chaste when mike's guts flood the pavement. burn the cities lost for the rotoscope frame trails. they're haunted. hi, i am my weight in blood-matted swan heads. i think my heart's a tesseract for twenty-somethings' saints wood ash, undercuts or russian doll husk yawns scored by razorbacks. attack of the 5'10" woman. no wife to dress my gutting. innards stretched over the next hollowed want like drum skins.
panic. panic. panic. run.
she loves bukowski but hates it when i drink too much and only write about my exes.
Track Name: No Funerals
i left my tongue in st. louis knotted 'round my ex's finger with a diamond-shaped tumor six-carat dead ringer. a year later i'm a drinker. whiskey while the sad songs play. and you don't love her if you never wanted to punch her fiancé. my anger's an anchor of pure regret. so i knuckle drag this path as unsure as my steps in the direction of any woman whose face isn't yours 'cause you don't need me to sleep like lexapro and red doors. it's less force and more labor to write dear johns with razors. so distance is a blessing when indifference is your nature. but the miles ache like stillborns and cherubim choked on words to sweeten my failures and your therapist's notes. so i carry these ghosts, cursed to bury epistles daily at a keystroke's depth in this swan cemetery. mercy red-feathered vulture bait me chances to leave her. birthdays were flight or flight. whole years of tandem seizures. feed me ether, little one. but trust there's foreplay in its taste and SKECH says the best revenge'll be fucking faye reagan. still my hands breaks for the name you chase to save the date with. power lloyd stabbing himself with the pen diane gave him. but maybe fate was right to let our days stray vagrant. acquired taste for decay that keeps pace with the aphids. plowface through each iris on the bed we laid for us. today it's my turn to confuse the sweat we made for love.
the laser script inside the diamond reads, "this is where she settled." tell paul i almost buried her twice between the echoes of bell tolls cut quiet. violence is a lonely expression. she don't love you if she wouldn't gut you and hang you with your lower intestine. or at least threaten it in detailed in e-mails and snuff-worthy text messages. ex exits shit. between our collarbones explains it. the difference between love and slow cannibalism is entertainment. and this is applause fading like the ashes of our stained glass wishbone breaking. and breaking to scrape her shoulder. she'll laugh when it's over. no question-shaped ache of weighing thorns to trade for closure. no. today, she's estranged framed in negative space, sewing graves for dissent in the wake of her gate. where sober silence is verse. the vainest of grace and broken bass violins pull untangling veins.
no funerals for one-month olds, crying over test results. no lady-in-waiting wading knee-deep in her lexapro. depression grew a mouth and ate my portion of hours. is love love if it'd rather be a corpse in the shower?