It all starts with broken sentences, about where we’ve been living in, the state that changed like government when we closed our evening eyes. and the hope we had in our jean pockets, just fell through holes into parking lots and our wellingtons weren’t part of our disguise.
so the evening rain came in pouring, through blinds and shades and insect nets. it ran down paint in faded sprints of lonely snail tracks. those arguments around the fire, were nothing short of smoking tar, so death will come much quicker in his leather seated car.
the jukebox always plays our song, we’re holding hands just to feel someone. i’d ask you to dance but you know i’ve two left feet. but when my conversation lacks compass, i’m sure you’ll find someone better dressed who you’d make a better future with than me.
so we hung the painting on the wall, and stood like ancient stone statues as our waving hands made shadows on the grass the best part of feeling sorely lost, is simpleness of a broken heart and the fight to regain how it ever was.
now we both pull faces, in the wind, everything’s equal but still stings when the breeze chokes, we’re both falling. into the land like angels screaming.
you spit on your mirror, in the light, always cursing softly in disguise, it’s getting late, your chords are out, i’d tune you darling, but i can’t kiss your mouth.
so it goes away, over and again, every few weeks we’re sick with longing. tell me a secret, make it worth it, i’m tired of waking in her arms and dirty.
hello, I kind of got lost in writing some music today, it’s not very good but I hope you like the words. xo
We all stand so awkwardly over plaster built scenery, one vision closer to a colour scheme of synchrony. That can light up all the senses in a chemical equation, like nuclear history in televised stadium. Oh I long to see so clearly in a world reduced to ash. Oh I wish to be the lucky one on the greener side of the grass.
Now the policy on getting by is to never let it slip, the evenings are for vampires and for those that simply quit. Though ‘the simple life’ of 9 to 5 is a dull receeding ache, for the vision of the empire on a empty dinner plate. Oh I long to see so clearly in a world reduced to ash. Oh I wish to be the lucky one on the greener side of the grass.
If the arguments on happiness we’ve one foot out the door, always kicking up our heels and barking at the walls. And when theres nothing left to say; when we’ve lost our will to conversate, Perhaps only then, can we talk. Perhaps our eyes will open to the state of our own soil.
Oh I long to see so clearly in a world reduced to ash. Oh I wish to be the lucky one on the greener side of the grass.
This is the first song I’ve written in 2012. I’ve literally just wrote it - I’m reading the lyrics off the couch. tell your friends. www.facebook.com/karlchristophmusic
These golden rays leak down across sun burnt roads. With the windows down n’ no place to go.
The radio plays our favourite song, We’re strung out kids on the run.
In my mind I think we’re right on time, as the sunset lights up the skyline
I’ve got the love it’s resting in my hands. Let’s fall asleep together on the sand. We’ll be alright, in each others arms.
We cross the streets in a golden blaze, the Shady Pines is calling our names. We’ll down a few til’ we’re down and out. then stumble back home, somehow.
I’ve got the love it’s resting in my hands. Let’s fall asleep together on the sand. We’ll be alright, in each others arms.
final-dedicati0n asked: Hey, I saw you play at a gig in Adelaide at the Cavern Club, early last year (I think), and I was wondering if you're coming back any time soon?
Hey, I miss adelaide! I don’t exactly have any imminent plans to tour there in the very near future (I’m working a lot lately) but I hope to get down there as soon as i can and in that I mean soon!
Thanks for putting me up in your tumblr bio, thats very nice of you.
theres never trouble if your a pile of bones, with socks that never stay up, and shoes that don’t leave home, i’ve tasted it, every last drip and with every sip you fill my mind, i could sail the seas in green envy, or maybe just sleep for a while,
because in time it will hurt, like mail that never comes and you can cough up all the blood, that sleeps within your lungs and i will try to make it work.
so the verdicts split, about my innocence that i lost in the heat of love, and if its any excuse at least i had the proof before we gave it up if your shoulder blades, cant mimic mine, then i guess we’ll call it tough, but i miss you babe, come over - times are rough.
because in time it will hurt, like mail that never comes and you can cough up all the blood, that lives within your lungs and i will try to make it work
now the easy life ain’t no ‘abc’, you traded ‘hello’ - for ‘hey baby’ it’s not indiscreet it’s no childhood dream, but it does, what it does. if a spades a spade at least we’ll have a hole, six feet deep and covered to the bone, and i walked the plank, out of control
because in time it will hurt, like mail that never comes and you can cough up all the blood, that lives within your lungs and i will try to make it work
because in time it will hurt, like mail that never comes and you can cough up all the blood, that lives within your lungs and i will try to make it work
so i just drink, till i’m out of my mind, remote control, stuck on re-wind. but you’re not her, and better so. she was a witch, in soul and shadow.
so the frequencies are atrocious, i can’t hear my own thoughts or get some rest. it’s been a while, and you’re ageing fast. you’re the spitting image of hope in my armor.
so i walk to this point, watching my step, always thinking twice to feint regret. but you know, it’s cuffed to my wrist, i can’t ever be cured unless i cease to exist.
we’re too different to be exclusive. frostbite fingers over collarbones, what a touch, what a fright, you were right, you weren’t right.
time fades under trees of shade, expectations are ninety percent fake. got to loose this cup, in the heat of war, slashing throats for violent slumbers.
i can’t sleep, we both can’t sleep, just keep turning over, to keep the peace. so the simplest of gifts are bitter shots into the bloodstream, lost but hand-locked.
