Whatever Today, and Tomorrow
Today I was listening to some guitar players on you tube, and I happened upon Suicide is Painless, which most people would recognize as the theme from the TV series MASH, if they even remember that. Well whatever I was looking at the lyrics, and I thought you know I wonder if they wrote that for the show, or if the creators of the show just thought the song fit the show. This led me to a link that provided me with a version from Marlyn Manson, which I listened to, for a minute, before I switched to Crosby, Stills and Nash, Just a Song before I go. Then I went to lastfm.com to listen to some more CSN and whatever else.
What the fuck am I talking about, have I become so fucking empty headed that I am suddenly just chatting about some music. Is there no end to this senseless prater, that I read, dribbling from the emptiness of the electronic digital circuitry. Have they already taken over, these metallic sounds, no metal, but clipped sounds, devoid of feeling. What happened to the analog sound of air.
Yea, that's the ticket.
Analog, analog, the sweet sound of sound moving air.
The fucking idiots that comment on some of these videos. Here is a guy that is providing a free recording of himself playing guitar, and the fucking idiots that can't even play guitar, or if they do they certainly probably do not play as well as this guy does, and they are saying this or that, like some empty headed mimics. And yet...
I can say that it is not this guitar guy, it is the fucking machine, it took all the life out of the music, which used to be played by people and listened to by people without an electronic interface. The compression does it no justice.
Traveling at twice the speed of sound, you are bound to get burned.
It is time we stopped, now, what is that sound, everybody look what is going down.
And if you look close the time is closing, and the shops are just open their eyes to the light of yesterday, life was such an easy game to play, now it seems as though it is blinding and I don't have my cheap sunglasses.
It must be early the sun is looking green from envy.
Our house, where the fuck is our house, did you really say that it was in the middle of the street, or was it just a very fine house, down by the river.
This leaves me helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby.
Is this to much, Dr. Quinn, never actually seen the show, but I knew of it.
Sometimes I just want to lie down and sleep through the day, in the hopes that tomorrow will be better. Why can't we just sleep forever, you're a fucking tool.
You either do what needs to be done, or you get out before you get in, so there are no casualties of the after glow.
I lick the lolly-pop of her fingertip, as the blood drips, from my lips, into a pool of despair, where the yes go to know what it is they know. And the man who knows all that you know, he has your hair in his eyes, and he is yellow now, can you see his slim figure in the mist as you sit there in your electric chair, waiting for the break of dawn, or a thunderstorm.
I love you all... fuck off.
Today I was listening to some guitar players on you tube, and I happened upon Suicide is Painless, which most people would recognize as the theme from the TV series MASH, if they even remember that. Well whatever I was looking at the lyrics, and I thought you know I wonder if they wrote that for the show, or if the creators of the show just thought the song fit the show. This led me to a link that provided me with a version from Marlyn Manson, which I listened to, for a minute, before I switched to Crosby, Stills and Nash, Just a Song before I go. Then I went to lastfm.com to listen to some more CSN and whatever else.
What the fuck am I talking about, have I become so fucking empty headed that I am suddenly just chatting about some music. Is there no end to this senseless prater, that I read, dribbling from the emptiness of the electronic digital circuitry. Have they already taken over, these metallic sounds, no metal, but clipped sounds, devoid of feeling. What happened to the analog sound of air.
Yea, that's the ticket.
Analog, analog, the sweet sound of sound moving air.
The fucking idiots that comment on some of these videos. Here is a guy that is providing a free recording of himself playing guitar, and the fucking idiots that can't even play guitar, or if they do they certainly probably do not play as well as this guy does, and they are saying this or that, like some empty headed mimics. And yet...
I can say that it is not this guitar guy, it is the fucking machine, it took all the life out of the music, which used to be played by people and listened to by people without an electronic interface. The compression does it no justice.
Traveling at twice the speed of sound, you are bound to get burned.
It is time we stopped, now, what is that sound, everybody look what is going down.
And if you look close the time is closing, and the shops are just open their eyes to the light of yesterday, life was such an easy game to play, now it seems as though it is blinding and I don't have my cheap sunglasses.
It must be early the sun is looking green from envy.
Our house, where the fuck is our house, did you really say that it was in the middle of the street, or was it just a very fine house, down by the river.
This leaves me helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby.
Is this to much, Dr. Quinn, never actually seen the show, but I knew of it.
Sometimes I just want to lie down and sleep through the day, in the hopes that tomorrow will be better. Why can't we just sleep forever, you're a fucking tool.
You either do what needs to be done, or you get out before you get in, so there are no casualties of the after glow.
I lick the lolly-pop of her fingertip, as the blood drips, from my lips, into a pool of despair, where the yes go to know what it is they know. And the man who knows all that you know, he has your hair in his eyes, and he is yellow now, can you see his slim figure in the mist as you sit there in your electric chair, waiting for the break of dawn, or a thunderstorm.
I love you all... fuck off.
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