[Old Grape God]:
Welcome to the shitshow,
Can I get you anything to drink?
If yo handshake that feeble,
what am I to assume of your spirit?
Klink the cheers like I’m tryna chew glass,
you, me, and all our regrets watered down
with hash and release after release.
I’m just tinkering in a field of hats,
gettin' my kicks off ignoring the rats nibbling
what I deemed as trash. What I need last
is more empty advice.
those mice were blind when I met them, I swear.
We bonded over not being able to read music as well as the room.
You need better friends not amphetamines, but wanna be so Palahniuk-esque.
I make music for people that used to put a wet towel down by the door crack
and now just pay the smoking fine (that’s crazy).

Clearing my mind is a fools errand
but I needed to get out the house anyways.
There’s many ways to make a record but only one way to break it: do better.
Fuck is you waitin' for?
Have somethin' absorbent to direct your anger towards,
otherwise you just sound like that age you was stunted at.
With a 9 o’clock shadow and piles of debt owed to the false hope of youth.
Run this back and email me with any proof I stretched truth.
I know not all imaginations make it past tongue tip.
Pool of resources never got jumped in:
“gang gang gang,” you yellin’ for people
you never been in the same room with or shared a blunt with.
Hmm, somethin’ ain’t right.
I don’t remember all these cracks in the blade of my knife,
I was too busy preppin' tomorrow’s meal to realize
how hard I was forcin' the chop.
Everything is perforated, you just gotta know how to find the crease.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m constantly clockin' the speed at which I’m dying
and runnin' out of reasons to pump the brakes—
I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free,
I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free,
I’m just hopin’ the ground causes the skid, so I can keep on living free,
so I can keep on living free!

[Andrew Mbaruk]:
spinning into art the current craze
spitting in the dark his burning phrase
their fire blurry in the news report
this vampire buried as the Human Torch
and installed in his coffin a secret
so small even God couldn’t read it
involved in the moss and the tree tips
these ghazals you gloss as the genius
this crocodile phobia retreat
involved in time’s unfolding underneath
the clock’s style of knowing from the streets of Hong Kong
glowing like the sea
these moonlit heroes of literature
these crooning Negroes a caricature. I spin the past
into what things are
in this my craft or sullen art
I sang the mind made upright as the fist
by Frankenstein
made to write this
untrue unfaithful to his likeness
the sun is new every day
Heraclitus
and there is nothing new under the sun
set
as the booze under drunk upon the table,
these drunken gods, their fables
serving you the place, it’s ancient origin
returning to the waves as Namor the prince
of Atlantis