Smithcrawler

by The Flaks

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03:31
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02:03
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01:26
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03:07
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02:09
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01:35
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03:34
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04:58

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released 28 March 2015

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The Flaks Birmingham, Michigan

The Flaks came together in early 2009, at the tender age of 13 years. "We do the punk music, and we break your jaw, fuck your cat, shit your pants, and fuck your cats shit, after breaking your cat."
2009 - 2014

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Track Name: Cradle Your World
Plastic bastard.
Hollow mannequin drag show.
Sick of being yourself, an individual.
Always tired from being alone.
A ringing in your ears from screaming at the wall.
Mirrored top velvet casket. 
Another squick, a social straight-jacket.
The malice in your eyes sees only out of spite for those who are blind.  Don’t come too close or try to see inside.
Like the river, drowning all your pride.
Watching the rain fall on your face won’t clear the blackened sky.  And one day you won’t believe your truth that everything’s a lie.
So full of hot air I can see your breath.
Too good to clean up after wallowing in your mess.
But I guess it’s better to be safe than to risk
everyone knowing you expect to fail, so you don’t get disappointed. 
And you’re falling down, right down to your knees.
Feel the systemic-toss and the cold breeze.
It seems you’d buy anything, everything, just to escape your thoughts in your mind race.
Well have you ever wanted just to feel secure,
to feel the cold, cold pride, or maybe just the warm.
‘Hold your head in your hands, and cradle it in your lap, or feel the touch of a friend on your back. 
Don’t try to pretend you feel so secure.
Anything they could say you’ve told yourself 1,000 times before. 
Track Name: Thunderbuck, Hiccup
Clean the hands to wash the body. The water's rusted, dripping down the drain. It seems you hate me more often than not. Everything's out of focus, and it's driving me insane. I hate myself. I'm rotten and insecure. I am pink and purple plastic vermin, left outside to die. My brain is turning into mush; the master malingerer of the groan. I'd do anything to stay out of touch -- chew my hands off when I'm alone. It seems I'm buried in shit, dug deep in the ground. I don't care, anymore, for my cold and fickle clampdown. Nails and snails, and puppy-dog tails, a liquored booze-hound, a fool and a pathetic clown. My mouth wets and waters, my brain begins to spin and wonder, "If I ever lost her..." I know I wouldn't, couldn't find her. I lay in my bed, and I close my eyes. I wouldn't blink for a week, just so I could see her smile. I am shameful, disillusioned, apathetic with confusion, short-sighted, and in denial, not quite present for quite a while.
Track Name: Radiator
"I’m just gonna keep writing and writing until something comes out.  I don’t care if it’s shit, I don’t care if it’s shit,”  he said to himself.  He had locked himself in a small dark room, something he had been meaning to do for a while. 
He had his pen, and his pad, and he had his typewriter, if he could ever make it that far.  But, until then, the room had him, and his pen, and his pad, and his desk, and typewriter, and the stale cigarette smoke floating in the air, circling his stale light-bulb.  “Fuck.  It’s shit.”  He picked up what he had written.
He flicked his lighter and burned the page, letting it fall into a steel bin next to his desk under his ash tray, and his pen, and his pad.  He looked down and to the right of his desk to see the fire, but by then it was mostly smoke and ash.   
I wanna see the fire.
I wanna see the fire burn.
I wanna be there for ya.
Don't wanna have to wait my turn.
Radiator.
Radiator.
Radiator.
Radiator.
Track Name: Squick pt. 1
Fly a porky, lil, pink, lil piggy to the pub.
Field mice turn rats for taps and shoot up white doves.
Can't find my pony-pepperoni wagon to shake a leg.
When this old man comes rolling home with vomit on his face.
Close your eyes for the scary part.
This is the part that's always hard.
This is the part that will take you far and
this is the part that'll make ya crawl.
And the doubt pores out of the spout in the
bathroom, under the mirror.
And down the street the taps poor while rats out back peddle gear.
And this entire time I'm staring myself down in the mirror.
Or am I down the street at the bar? No I'm there. No I'm here.
And when I scream, nobody hears.
I got this knife from the kitchen 'bout to stab it in my ear
cuz the voices, they wont shut the fuck up when I'm trying to sleep.
When all I'm trying to do is I'm just trying to breath and
not try to count the minutes cuz I'm just trying to sleep.
Not try to count the minutes cuz I'm just trying to sleep.
Track Name: Who The Hell Is John R.?
There's a light from the T.V. set
in the window of the highest floor
of the building on the way into town
Track Name: Stare at the Sun
Brain bent.
Ludde sensations. Piddle problems.
Your painted face.
I watched it crack as you
sat and smiled.
Drinking hokum for the taste.
I poor your glass,
don't let it go to waste.
We can share.
Don't make haste.
Stare at the Sun.
Entropy of you and me.
Stare at the sun.
You know you're making me feel like a...
Stranger.
Stranger.
Stranger.
Stranger.
Brain bent.
Ludde sensations. Piddle problems.
Your painted face.
I watched it crack as you
sat and smiled.
Drinking hokum for the taste.
I pored you a glass,
just let it go to waste.
We can share.
Don't make haste.
I know in the heart of hearts
I'm forced to wear on my sleeve
that in the end, when the spirits plastered
angry boys become bitter old bastards.
It's no excuse.
It's an explanation, but it's the truth.
Track Name: Small
Good-Bye.
Fair well.
I hope one day we get to meet in Hell.
Good-Bye,
for now.
I hope one day you get to watch me drown.
Then you will see how small of a man I can be.
The you'll see how week I can truly be... Inside
I got molasses in my glasses and I've got the shakes
and i've got control of the entire human race.
And Im gonna make all then sons of bitches pay.
Turtle, turtle. Feces, feces. Spanish words and Charles Bukowski
I'm coming out of my shell and I've got a twitch, so...
Vomitus, vomitus. Vomonos it's time to quit.
Can't gaze at your refection in a pool of shit.
I had a dream the other night where I was a man
who had the power of control in the palm of his hand
And his grip was not fleeting and it was not
smothering.
And the man was controlled by no one and nothing
And in the end he was alone there standing in the street
Just as your life is yours, and my life is mine.
Then you will see how big of a man I can be
Then you will see how big of a man I can be.
The you'll see how strong I can truly be... Inside
I'm a mangled, masochistic manic,
an angry, arrogant appendage
of my Dad's defenses and dependancies
Good-Bye.
Fair well.
All the stupid pain that was important I felt.
Track Name: Forsythia
Loretta stands there crying.
The maraud just wasn't up to snuff.
Who paid the price, and who's buying?
And has she had enough?  I think not.
Not alot left to the right of this place.
Not alot left right down to the center.
But in the end be reassured
that I hate you with every single bone in my body,
you goddamn son of a fucking whore.
Loretta's not the bad one.
She just leaves 'em swingin'.
Her cigarette is burnt out, and she's just sick of thinking.
Is the focus too hard for foresight?
And are the pages too dark to read?
I know how it feels when you can't stand o your two feet.
Am I too exhausted for you to lean on me?
Track Name: Sweet
I leave you where you belong.
Home alone or by the phone,
maybe listening to a song.
Maybe a sad one that makes you smile,
or maybe one that'll make you forget my for a while.
Holding on to tomorrow
or any other day.
But I can only prey
there won't be no sorrow.
I just watch the trains go by,
painting pictures all the while (Where did I go wrong).
Maybe it's time to turn around,
maybe it's time to hear the sounds.
Do you live with yourself?
I doubt it highly.
Then again I should ask myself,
then again we'd have to find me.
Track Name: The Gambit & The Ram
Framing absence.
Lesions on my brain.
Modeling disappointment.
Lapping up the stains.
Picking teeth and gnawing at the fat.
Intimate with me, myself, and pain.
Hey miss pretend, do you remember when
my shenanigans... Before they turned to sand.
Nagging nonsense,
a paralyzing friend.
Shrieking silence
pissing in my head.
Now I'm asking all kinds of questions about you.
Now I'm blinded, dug my ditch dying for you.
Manic Panic.
Lesions on my brain.
Nagging nonsense,
gambling with my pain.
Sandy hands
holding up my head.
Panic faces
picking off the scabs. 
Track Name: Patches35 (eat your greens)
Wrote your name down on a blank page.
Tried to recall somethings you’d say.
Three white rabbits. Remember Mondays?
Patches35 Sidekick. Remember our life.
Now I’m thinkin’,
shouldn’t have believed you when
you said that you would stay.
Saw a girl on the street wearing yellow laced boots,
a sweater that made her look like a Christmas-tree. I turned around and asked if she remembered me. Her pale blue eyes looked into to mine like she could see right through me. Tie a string around your finger. Tie the other end to the door. Feel the pain, and let it linger. It’ll never feel like it did before. And I’m lonely. And I can’t forget you. They say make new friends but keep the old, whomever told you that never had to let go. And I’m too callow to do what I’m told. “Eat your greens.” “Eat your greens.” “Eat your greens.” “Eat your greens.”
Track Name: Abscess Rot
scape the usual, then it becomes the usual... You can't escape it if you try. Bassinet, bayonet, blah, blah, blah. Noise shot at a play on words never seemed so fun and you've been missing for a while. It's a game called circle that takes you far away and back again. That's how circle is played. You gotta be careful playing circle, because you just might wind up in the same place again. Then you realize you lost a friend. Your table is set, your kettle is boiling, and your sink is over-flowing. And it would appear that your wagon is broken. Be grateful for everything you've got, every paradox that makes you wanna give up, cos you could loose it all in just one second. Nothing seems better than this, except shooting shit. I'm shit. Shoot me, cos I am Shit. I commit suicide with a gun everyday. Your live becomes nothing but shit. You're then most nihilist narcissist. So much has gone, so much for goin'. You gotta be careful playing circle, because you just might wind up in the same place again. Then you realize you lost a friend. You gotta be careful playing circle, because you just might wind up in the same place again. Then you realize you lost a friend. Then you realize you lost a friend. Then you realize you lost a friend.
Track Name: Deadguy Ale
It’s hard to think of the words to describe the thoughts in your head, when you’ve been thinking them so long they start to think for you instead of yourself and all the things that you wanted to say, but couldn’t ever do it ‘cause something got in the way. Pain is short lived with life, and is easy to portray. Beauty’s ever-lasting, and exists in the haze. And you make a better window than a door when you’re closed shut. And I spit on the floor where you walk, yes, I spit on the floor where you walk. I tried writing you everything I deserved to say, but my pen bled my blood, then all I could read was rage. And that wasn’t good enough, so I balled up the page, ‘cause you were so much more than I could ever say. There’s a metaphor for you, but there’s not one for me, because the metaphors grew on the metaphor tree. And the metaphor tree got cut down last week, so it looks like I’ll write with a simile. But the harder that I write, the more pages that I rip out of my book filled with paper of the tree-tops that I sit. Until, from those tree-tops, that I know, I come falling down, and my words loose there meaning, and I hit the ground. Nothing left to bleed, only blood bled dry, by the gallon, by the weight, left with nothing, save, for the maraud, madness, but their vector, that, we keep. The sadness one should avoid... we save that. Save us, for now our daily sameness has broken us in, anesthetized to the commodity of the happy ending with no accent, save, the flame of the everyday. I can’t see the beauty, but I know that it’s there, like the deaf can feel the music: aching. aching now. This, lack of darkness only nothingness. A void. Nothing more, nothing less than absolutely nothing, nothing more, nothing less.
...and I morn the day’s twilight, for I am tired now, my mouth maligns the sleep. No. The wait. Save, for the wake, and perhaps a dream. I try to find rest, raped by the day, and bludgeoned by the evening. Before waiting not to be alone, now conforming to being alone with everyone else, tired, and waiting to sleep.