What We Talk About When We Talk About Each Other

by Vocas from the Tom Tom

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1.
2.
02:19
3.
04:27
4.
07:02
5.
04:01
6.
7.
8.

credits

released June 5, 2015

Recorder in Winter of 2014
Produced by Buddha Fingers

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Vocas from the Tom Tom Denton, Texas

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Track Name: NotNeD
No sense to make.
No sense to fabricate.
After the last traces
of rhythm and rhyme have been disposed of,
he places himself in that homely chair
to stare out a single window,
chain smoking until Jesus finally comes
and takes the soul away to a foreign, blissful reality.

He's late, very late.
Can do something (might as well)
with the ill-defined length of time to kill
before the second coming.

See the neighbor;
wave;
go to parties;
talk about weather;
fuck the neighbor
with every bit of passion and blood able to circulate;
loathe him,
for his undeserved superiority, misdirections,
corrections, and selfishness;
love him
because you are both going to die.

He speaks of all the particular troubles and pain in a life,
until the receiver is of no use anymore.
A napkin to soak up the spilled milk, toss, and grow sour.
"Particular" my ass!




I don't give anything to you.
Never been genuinely nice
or sadistically malicious,
but still, you pleasure me
with all of your taxes.

OPEN UP YOUR EARS JACKASS,
If I am to open my lips,
vibrate my vocal chords,
and strive each leg forward
looking for your own meaning.

And then what?
They've never heard that music before.

They've been speaking our universal abstractions
in the words of a foolish, materialistic animal,
words suggesting a colossal amount of bullshit,
found in everything I say
experiencing any certain sensation and
sucking up every drop of marrow
from the next instant that passes,

Requiring at least one party
to shovel through the excrement,
searching for what appeared to be an insignificant piece
of our four dimensional puzzle, and upon finding it,
you may see yourself a step closer to that sort of comfort

It may be okay
opening eyes to any precarious morning
and continue feeling the drops of love
splashed on your naked body.
It's unfortunate there isn't another pair
of latex gloves for my protection.
"Bare handing" it,

Not even my own shit.

After that day that leads up to an ass in a chair,
Closed lips, soft dick, stiff fingers exposing dirty nails,
and an abundance cigarette butts
stained with red lipstick,

waiting for maturity and ability to articulate,
waiting to pass on particular troubles and pains
to my messiah,

Jesus got lost in the panhandle of Texas.
Track Name: Iron Man
I am Iron Man!
Track Name: Frisky Dingo
You speak so incredibly loud
I don't think I could ever understand what you're really saying,
and in a moment of crisis, when you could't do damn thing to tell what I am,
close my eye lids and hope that
when I shout it brings us all a little understanding
Track Name: She Sayin' Words (with Abigail Firth)
What I know, what I say, where I go,
wherever it is I learn to happy
who I wish to share that kiss with and
who is ever there to let me,

The view right here all the way out there
burns anxiety in the eyes of a passing day, a certain
thought conceived given certain stimulation,
yeilds 3 acts of our passion play

having us tied in bed with a variety of crowds
giving lies or truths a listen (and how they do!)
How loud they cum for what words liberating all our
most spontaneous decisions

I am no longer alone. You could expect the feeling anyways,
but to suggest an infant like me? and who the hell are they to ask such
questions, and I to deliver an answer
to prove all our inner bastard with a pencil and an eraser,

and which letter am I to send to my poetic lover ?
like the sensation of my art can sway the mind of another's
poetic destiny which is, so to speak, not entirely inside of me
but maybe I'm that fool who finds its all too cool to still make a billion jokes about you

My words
would never hurt you, but I can't say
the music isn't there to
twist and pervert you.

I swear
if anyone is I am listening
but then again, one could feel your calling most deeply
if you'd quite talking of the passing storm
and dance with me in the rain.
Track Name: What We Talk About When We Talk About Each Other
This here is a simple progression,
so you may calm yourself of all the critical obsessions
spend some time inside the mind,
ask yourself questions like

Can you achieve happiness?
Is it the goal in mind manipulating your actions with everyday life?
How do you walk with it?
Do you carry your intoxication side your hip?
where movement keeps nothing but a
jealous pile of wooden erectionsto smoke over the courthouse
over the lawn where my nieces play
for god and all the other intellectuals
to watch and perhaps judge if they please,

And how are they? How do they talk?
Does conviction force way out a mouth?
Do lips move in relation of what is beneficial to me,
for the people, for stupidity
and of too many places to come and to leave?

And who the fuck are they to sip a tiny cup and smile from the coffee shop
like every opportunity comes from minuets
of still conversation with a back pocket flask,
running closer the time of cars and trucks
transporting college kids and mill workers and wanderers
blessing town square with a pass,

Just rolling along a way,
with particular destination in mind
but a billion places to see, and perhaps this one here
can find a home all they way out there
in the darkness,
with the stars and the grass
and the animals.

It makes you feel like that, doesn't it?
like Ted in Nebraska July
while the rusty truck you passed
personifies a resting anxiety
in broken fenders and flat tires.

Do you feel like letting the air capture
and blow every bit of joy out your fingertips
for whoever laughs at the joke?

And how do you,
all the way out here,
go about telling the joke



And I've heard my debt to freedom is irredeemable,
but at least I get to make my own decision.
Spend the 96 percent on the compound interest,
and leave a bit to keep up with the women.

And I'm slowly disregarding everything you've taught me
and even learning how to form my own opinion,
but with subtle implications and sexual positions
I am but naked contemplating my own soul for cigarettes,

and I've heard the price of love with be the death of me,
but it may be wise for nobody to listen.
Spend half your fuckin' life building all kinds of bridges,
kill the sound. Are you excited now? We've created a map without limits.