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lyrics

Sour stomach and no resources for hunger. Showered in sweat from the dehumidifiers deep in the bunker. Feverish slumber interrupted by a distinct, creeping discomfort. Grown boy weeping on a semen-encrusted cover with a last week’s laundry and a hand washed sheet buffer. He keeps telling himself it’s like this because he needs to suffer. Back in the summer of six denied applications for somewhere to sleep peacefully. These were the best days he could muster. Tug one weeping nut out onto his palm before he crawled upstairs to wade through the aluminum nest for fruit flies he constructed with three others. You’re only young once. Who the fuck cares if you remember? Who the fuck knows if you’ll ever truly recover? The cans go in the bags. The bags used to go into the trunk of the clunker but that stopped runnin’. 95 degrees. Feels like two hundred. The beverage center on Front Street smells like booze and money. MD 20/20 in exchange for the plunder. 
Dumpster child. Wash the funk off in the crustiest tub his bare feet ever touched. Scared he’s gonna catch something. Fuck it. The water's colder than a warlock's cock lodged in the tundra. Every drop stings the sunburn. Heavy heart feels the punishment. Never consciously concerned about the cocktail of substances he funnels to the gut worm to help him stop worrying about who he's not putting his tongue in. If it hurts it's not up for discussion. No self worth but the kid got gumption. Still unemployed. Still disgruntled. Still takes joy in the wonder of chasing rabbits down tunnels. Rice, beans and a tamale goes for three bucks at select bodegas and beats the fuck out of payin’ the same for three McDoubles. Huntin’ for work until sundown, but nobody wants to hire a bum with mossy teeth and a couple seasons worth of stubble, and no one needs to sleep with a lush who can’t get it up without chuggin’ at least thirteen Buds. The xanies weaken the muscles. 



“I know that I’ve been under, but whether I better myself or get drunker is up to me at this juncture. What are you, my mother?"

“I know that I’ve been under, but whether I better myself or get drunker is up to me at this juncture. What are you, my mother? You don’t look like my mother”



His lover traveled in bumper to bumper from Suffolk just to say how much she wants to remain with her significant other. He’d beg her to stay but it's too hot to cuddle and she's still with that fucker. Dark lord willing his days are numbered. They don’t hug. Sometimes he gets to touch her. He just shrugs while his innards are ripped asunder. One last memory before he finishes his liquid supper. Then back to the rumpus room to crash on a sick comforter.



He had a hard day today. Day to day…


credits

from Comedy of the Filthbeast, released June 27, 2017
Produced by Headtrip
Additional Instrumentation by Phil Anderson

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Lt Headtrip New York, New York

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