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all talk // no action

from Can't Wait 4 The 80's To Be Over Again by Tread

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lyrics

(first verse):

I'm all talk, and no action

no walk, just abstraction,

a strange lil contraption who hides away while he's rappin,

like if I just stay home, then everything might still happen

even if I'm not gone and happening with it,

sit stoic upon my bed like I'm the first exhibit so you better buy your ticket

cus my sedentary rhyming is the sickest that you'll witness in this lazy loser academic poet

spouting bullshit from his quilted pulpit genre I invented in a literal minute a minute ago

media spinning the image til the mannequins bread and butter head explodes in the very same instant

the daguerrotype camera's chemic vile of liquid light flashbangs a photo from a no show

to a screenshot show forever sitting up atop your dresser for you to lament thru times both worse and better,

"but beautiful nonetheless," written as the foreward header in decorative neon letters,

prophylactic in my spastic hand clasped to a cup made with the remains of a plastic man,

I dust the dunes of the desert trying to clean-up all the sand so the next procession

of humanity can build a city on this land, ugly and hot "but beautiful nonetheless"

stacked across the desert dunes in decorative neon which'll stay lit for an eon,

after our species has perished under the weight of extreme excess, yet the neon keeps on

glowing as an ironic artifact of progress which, by admission, you don't expect

like the Spanish Inquisition, but I digress, back with a bullet in my chest which I wear

as an inverted necklace wrapped within my hanging garden of an esophagus,

lost in the mixed necropolis metropolis of mind with Kurt Vonnegut behind

trying to push me off the precipice painted by my own inner impressionist,

so it's just a picture, and he keeps on shoving me in the frame like my inner life

is just a game.

(second verse):

can tough be enough if the road rattles rough

and the wind writhes right across the windshield,

in the middle of the winter? thank you, good sir,

now would you please define "sinner"? cus the galaxy

is winking at me with the wiley waves of quarks and quasars

shining on and on in jest, even know the light's long dead,

I'm still looking, still out booking the next flight to that crooked

inflection of matter's perception, something my words always fail to mention,

at least with the right vibe of declarative tension, Sisyphus is pissed with us

cus we've made him push that boulder up Olympus for the good part of a century,

justifying it by saying that we do the same thing as him in analogy,

thus he's just another casualty of progress's packed academy, imposing one reality,

of business-as-vitality, market as a masterpiece tacked up to hide the hole in the drywall

looking out across catastrophe that's never sans apostrophe or even deeper atrophy,

the most ubiquitous resource they exploit is vulnerability after tragedy,

now if God could close his eyes, he might just imagine me,

dreaming my entire life into a single night, and when he wakes I'm Neal Cassady,

crossing the road in a moral calamity and hovering above the pavement like I've never even heard of this thing called "gravity."

credits

from Can't Wait 4 The 80's To Be Over Again, released January 26, 2019
Instrumental: "glowed up" prod. by Nawias.

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Tread Powell River, British Columbia

Cosmic poetry in infinite motion until we realize there is no end, after which he keeps on rhyming
--**--ethereal
oddball
rap--**--

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