Throat Magic

from by Pandas

/

lyrics

A smoking gun is that how I see love, when lustfully looking down one’s nose just to gloat? A loaded tongue, is that all I’ve become? Buckshot that sprays such spiteful spit all around. A loose cannon, is that what I call love? Vapor trails of such convinced ghosts. (Friend or foe) This steely tongue is all I’ve relied on, but these polished prose cut oh so cold for so long. So take back all I pontificate, is that enough? To never state another God-damned thing, is not enough. Far from enough. I’ve been Indian-giving my opinion to all who’ll listen. End of a scene, the bones picked clean and my blanket statements hold small pox and fleas. Miles and miles of foaming bile, I’ve spilled my contents onto every surface. The bar stool seats and sad city streets soak in my pessimistic logic. Cobbling together all this debris is not enough. To shout but never learn a God-damned thing, that’s not enough. Still not enough. Take back all I pontificate, is that enough? To never state another God-damned thing, is that enough? Will that hold up? Well, close enough. Is that I’m still shooting to kill with burnt coffee grinds and an endless landfill. Retract these claws, unclench this jaw, I’m out of sorts without ear-poison discourse. Instead. Instead let’s stay in bed where the ruins won’t pile from the things I’ve said. Heart in a drought and an ugly mouth, I’ll keep it down in this nest of down. I’ll keep it down. I’ll keep it down. It’s more than words left on the page. I’m more than words left on a page. We’re more than words left on the page. You’re more than words left on a page. You’re the quotes I cite short and concise. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re my fixed dice. Scotch on ice. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re all numbers prime. The constant pi. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re a peregrine dive. The scent of pine. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re red skies at night. Sweetness and light. The perfect line I’ve never figured how to write. You’re Beethoven’s ninth. Form and rhyme. The perfect line I’ll never write.

credits

from Brahe, released August 24, 2011

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Pandas Baltimore

It’s like punk, but with more musicianship. Maybe it’s actually prog, but prog that never went to Berkeley. Then again,maybe it’s metal, but without all the spiky leather. Or perhaps it’s hardcore, but more Greg Ginn and less Jamey Jasta.

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