1. |
My Plan is to Pretend
02:18
|
|||
|
Art is the way I communicate.
I thought I had something to say…
Oh well, my bad, you know, my mistake.
And the man making money for wife and kids in the morning
is more at peace than I’ll ever be.
When all of this started I said, “Wait and see.”
Here are my concerns:
God, family, death, and friends.
I know I will never learn—
My plan is to pretend.
I once nailed the balance between raw and contrived.
I simply killed a memory by letting it thrive.
I’m different at seven than in the dead of night.
And I once I paid my own way for a couple of weeks,
but I soon tired of it and now I’m in the streets
where I walk until sunrise begins to leak.
Here is a concern:
Have I missed my purpose?
I know I will never learn,
looking for destiny where no wise man searches.
God, family, death, and friends—
My plan is to pretend.
God, family, death, and friends—
My plan is to pretend.
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
That brand new class psychosis you have coveted from afar
suddenly blasts the custom lunar lander that got too close to a star.
The heat and radiation quickly strip you of your hull,
and you’re left to wander cosmos as a lonely naked soul.
If this is what it means to finally be your own,
you think you’d have rather stayed within the strict walls of your home.
This unique dilemma is one you could not prepare for.
You’re a bourgeoisie hunk of meat thrown to the starving poor.
You’re a fatty marbled hunk of meat thrown to the starving poor.
You try to serve your problems in the grand hall to your friends,
but they’re tired of your concoctions and they beg you to hear them.
Each one’s sobbing story is offered with a coin,
and they’ve soon eclipsed your fortune and the bareness of your loins.
If this is what it means to have a spacious house,
you think you’d rather live like the dirt on the slow boat out of Laos.
Where the family plants their burdens in the garden before the storm
in the same place you’ll ask to lie once you have been kicked through death’s door.
You’re a bourgeoisie hunk of meat thrown to the starving poor.
You’re a fatty marbled hunk of meat thrown to the starving poor.
You’re a fatty marbled mannequin you can’t control no more.
|
||||
3. |
You With Your Camera
02:12
|
|||
|
The matter of state, like every liquid thing,
expands in the friction of emotional belief.
Once in the fray I suspended my blade,
but three times now I’ve been cut and it makes me afraid.
And I saw you dancing there on Washington,
at the corner, the night the war begun.
Tension in shoulders. Fear for daughters and sons…
And you with your camera.
She made you breakfast twice
the year you spent living at her parent’s house.
And when you parted ways, she gave you this advice,
“The market being what it is, get out.”
And I saw you dancing there on Washington,
at the corner, the night the war begun.
Tension in shoulders. Fear for daughters and sons…
And you with your camera, hoping for bloodshed.
Nobody noticed that you weren’t born yet.
You with your camera, lining your tar tongue.
Nobody noticed that’s how you stayed young.
You with your camera.
|
||||
4. |
Bark
03:40
|
|||
|
Under the bark there’s flesh; at the core there’s bone.
I wish that I could prove to you I’m a human too,
but my witnesses only seem to see me when I’m reaching in the ground.
I pull out my confusion, to them confirmation: it’s fruit.
But if you will believe me for a minute or two or three,
There's a melody, like a memory, I find intriguing.
In winter, I bear my anger in a frozen frame.
Stand beneath my barren display and feel the freezing rain.
Come summer, my heart is vacant for I’ve long since flown.
I spend my days in solitude though I’m rarely alone.
Under the bark there’s blood which flows like rich black oil.
All I need is a spark, please.
Call it a lesson, a judgment, or some form of raw turmoil.
All I need is a spark, please.
But if you will believe my for an hour or two,
there’s an odd old song I believe I’d like to share with you.
In winter, I bear my anger in a frozen frame.
Stand beneath my barren display and feel the freezing rain.
Come summer, my heart is vacant for I’ve long since flown.
I spend my days in solitude though I’m rarely alone.
Don’t expect symmetry from me. Don’t expect anything.
|
||||
Matthew Allred Twin Falls, Idaho
Matthew Allred is a Renaissance Artist interested primarily in novel-writing, but also visual arts, other creative writing, and of course--making music. As a musician, Allred is primarily interested in creating unique moments and emotions that mix the familiar with the unknown. ... more
Matthew Allred recommends:
Good stuff. NYP download. How could you go wrong?
go to albumIf you like Matthew Allred, you may also like:
I Used To Be Sad & Then I Forgot
by Mr. Alec Bowman_Clarke
Alec Bowman perfectly captures the dark soil under the pastoral world of British folk with this collection of melancholy originals.
go to album
For My Love
by Kesang Marstrand
featured on Bandcamp Radio Jan 5, 2016
go to album
Stirring Americana set to acoustic arrangements and topped by the legendary Alice Gerrard’s lovely, world-wise voice.
go to album
The Edge of the Land
by Katie Spencer
Spencer's indie folk sophomore album was recorded live in the studio over the course of two days.
go to album
The Flowers That Bloom in Spring
by Kieran Kane & Rayna Gellert
Kieran Kane & Rayna Gellert offer up a stunning minimalist country record, conjuring huge emotions with little more than vocals & guitar.
go to album
