1. |
Pride Before The Squall
03:14
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Patient is a funny noun
that never quite describes
the traits shown by those it defines, saying,
“Oh, if you only knew how hard I’ve tried
to resist this gale of vice.”
On the slim chance that it might provide some
perspective to me,
I called your bluff to see
if all the effort I’d exert would be for naught
and
entered your vacuum.
In an adjacent room,
I gave the signal and you flicked the panel on.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you”
Now I’m leaning in the breeze
as the fan accelerates
and a premonition of my fate comes clear.
I aim for the door,
but my hand won’t reach the knob
and my gripless feet reject the floor.
So, abrupt—expressly,
per the telemetry—
at pace surpassing haste,
the buffet lifts me up then back
and
if I recall right,
through the window, mid-flight,
you had left the motherboard.
The turbine will not stop,
...and then just darkness,
knocked unconscious
from a force that can’t be held,
but at every moment’s felt.
It leaves a scarred heap,
turning bodies to debris.
Only sightlessness enlightens.
Only blinded can you see.
Then when I came to
,
an unfamiliar crew
eager to piece together what had gone so wrong asked
“How’d you get in there?
Calm down, you’re in our care.
How many fingers do you see me holding up?”
“I think it’s one? Two?
Who’s who?”
Limbic failure, blown and bruised as I playback panic,
not quite clueless, but clearly confused:
“What was that?”
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2. |
Quarrydiving
02:40
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It’s a test, but I guess we’ll never know
who wrote which answer best
or if it was their own,
since all that you’d attested
established as a peer and drew my orbit in
until I got too near.
Oh, in every interaction: the writing on the wall.
Direct me to the shallows—I’ll gladly take the fall.
We love our executions public, after all.
I knelt and never second-guessed
the albatross around your neck,
the letter sewn upon your chest removed at thy behest.
I hold my breath and close my eyes
and clasp my hands to quarrydive,
though something’s in the water down below
and I don’t know what it is.
Too alike to coincide:
too uptight to ever patch a permanent peace.
In every cliff we bridged and every ploy we shared,
the wit went to your head, competitive and scared,
till looking back in anger, while I was unaware…
The trail of dead and stench of spite
the surest—if you’re sane—of signs
that something in the pit’s not right.
Regardless, I invite my naive faith to take the plunge,
a dare declared by no one,
but there’s something in the water down below
and I can’t wait to witness what
and never second-guess
the albatross around your neck,
the letter sewn upon your chest removed at thy behest.
I hold my breath and close my eyes
and clasp my hands to quarrydive.
Something’s in the water down below,
so here I go jumping in.
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3. |
Domestic Terror
03:47
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Part and parcel to parsing your problems
is understanding animosity
ain’t some indelible defect that you’ll fold to
however hard it is to let your conscience breathe.
Who are you to define where the threshold of progress lies?
Yeah, who are you to decide you’ve arrived on the positive side?
Intimidating to inhibit independence—
suppose in a way it’s all you’ll ever be.
I can’t and won’t demand compulsory repentance.
It don’t mean shit involuntarily,
though if your farce ain’t ever forced to face itself,
watch desperation drive your drivel inside out.
(It’s homegrown menace).
Averting our eyes or waiting for the storm’s might for a time sound better, but down in the trenches, war never changes,
(War never changes, war never changes)
and neither until I will this domestic terror.
Snapping back as an over-correction
or yet worse, shooting rounds in the self-esteem
of every confidant’s competing attention
you could’ve warmed up to or at least learned to live with.
Who are you to define where the threshold of effort lies?
Yeah, who are you to decide it’s enough and you’re done and you’ve tried?
Averting our eyes or waiting for the storm’s might for a time sound better, but down in the trenches, war never changes
,
(War never changes, war never changes)
and neither until I will the domestic terror
I excuse and allow by not asking for help.
I’m strong enough to withstand it—not quite enough to get out.
All we want is to live with a sense of worth
and all you do to maintain yours is punch the fuck on down.
Averting our eyes or waiting for the storm’s might for a time sound better, but down in the trenches, war never changes,
(War never changes, war never changes)
and neither until I will the domestic terror
you inflict on us still—a collateral hell.
I’m strong enough to contain it.
Keep taking for granted I will and we’ll see how far it gets you.
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4. |
The Depths of Love
03:36
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In a daze of despondence
or of counterfeit detail
that deems all your actions righteous
and yet so inclined to fail
when a well wish goes unnoticed and with no return to sender
and the golden rule depreciates compared to printed tender,
know that everyone on Earth will sometime end up the offender
and aim to brush against the depths of love.
If betrayal seems essential to explain the pain that you’ve felt,
then the monster gnawing at you changes form to mimic your guilt
as you speak for those without a voice, but to them never listen
and relief amounts to schadenfreude when those you loathe hit friction.
Darkness never stems from one root cause alone—
it has a lineage you need to bust to feel the depths of love.
I have barely grazed them once myself.
Hardly capable to sow such doubt on my own—you sure watered it well.
To detach could prove helpful should you contemplate how to change,
oh, but the act and the idea are rarely one and the same.
When you swear off all your outrage just to promptly undercut
who’s allowed to call you out by playing coy and tearing trust,
please, see hate is not your enemy; it’s fear you need to crush
if you intend to touch the full extent of love,
and all I’ve seen so far suggests that you do not.
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5. |
Greener
04:51
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(2, 3, 4!)
Be careful where you aim that glare—
you’ll lose sight of the optics.
The tables turned as those you spurned
saw through your words so caustic.
Accustomed to avoiding bait, I tried to rationalize
reciprocating equal hate
would leave the world one-eyed,
and the peace beyond the precipice
of trespasses forgiven
tastes better than a stale revenge
that may end unacquitted.
Be mindful while you find that line
between joke and deception—
the only thing that sets the two apart is their reception.
The truce beyond the tribulation wasn’t made in stride.
If you can’t agree with meeting me halfway, just step aside,
or else so bereft of clemency,
a mondegreen of “vacancy”
is all we’ll have to carry us,
waves without a shore.
To presuppose I’d follow suit, you must’ve thought me meaner.
I don’t expect I’ll see you there, but I’m bound for pastures greener.
(Woohoo!)
The gift within the separation I can’t overstate.
Both I and—if you let yourself—you can wipe clean this slate,
but my sole responsibility
is regaining some stability,
to give and take, live and let be,
the turbulence ignored,
where all I need to carry me
is dignity restored.
Reflect, express, and decompress.
I’ll mend and venture forward.
Will you?
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6. |
Sunk Cost Fantasies
05:45
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Man, I know I shouldn’t…shouldn’t have come back here bearing all,
fashioning a fabric flattering and framing every flaw,
bragging of the better, brighter days to dawn from your demise,
sinking to the gutter, stooping to a likeness of your lines to find
reconciliation can occur as equals,
but once an upper hand’s been gained, it’s set in stone.
Sentence all your sunk cost fantasies to exile
and toss your ego overboard—it’s overblown.
Dead man’s float back home.
Sad this counts as victory, raising toasts with Pyrrhus underneath.
Even when departed from the drama, I can’t help but seem
itching for a put-down, some remark to keep you in your place,
but by now, whose conjecture would it suit to say you’d do the same to me?
Reconciliation as a feigned precaution
keeps you turning in a grave of your own doubt.
If you fill the buried coffin up with straw men,
arson’s probably not the smartest option out.
Time apart, away, never makes the shape more tangible.
Space exacerbates dialogue that’s untranslatable.
Past the present day, knowing all goodwill has been annulled,
one thing hasn’t changed: patience is an anxious phase
and easier to fake…
It’s easier to fake…
It’s easier to fake than love as far as I’m concerned.
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The Heist Revenge Waterbury, Connecticut
The Heist Revenge is Zack Lorenzen and any collaborators who appear on his projects.
The Heist Revenge recommends:
"Band" with high-school friends. Take seriously at your own risk.
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