[DARK INDIETRONICA] Moody Male Singles by Real Lies + Sameblod + Lucas Nord + Chores

[DARK INDIETRONICA] Moody Male Singles by Real Lies + Sameblod + Lucas Nord + Chores

[DARK INDIETRONICA] Moody Male Singles by Real Lies + Sameblod + Lucas Nord + Chores


Spent my birthday alone. Blew birthday candles at my imaginary friend. The one that punched me in the face. Ghost fists hurt worse than people palms, I tell you. What you invent should love you; but even the spirits in my synapses shake their fist at me. Think about it. Down two.three.seven drinks. Land nowhere on if it hurts to be han soloing it. Throw a fist up in the air. Hits the left eye, little balls of fury (like everyone thinks me) deserve to be alone. Hits the right eye, lick my wounds over whiskey.

A sinner,
Who’s probably going to sin again
Forgive me for things
I don’t understand
Sometimes I need to be alone
Don’t kill my vibe

It really can’t go either way. Lands 70/30, most days–varying on my voice’s care to yell at the world ‘yo, where the fuck are my eyes?’. My arm/mind-eye coordination, like everything about me, is off kilter. Want to throw up a right, get a middle finger moseying into my vision. All I know is me vs. people has been thrown elbows as hugs, hands waving at feet, eyes staring at ears. For years.

I hear voices in my head
Telling me they won’t let me forget
They go back and forth

On birthdays, I seek sanity. Can’t deal with your shit. All the disapproving smiles. When I move from mawkish. to ebullient at the Pamplona in my personal thoughts. to lascivious, licking the air with love stories. All told, changing mood at each minor movement of a mojito towards my mouth. You’re always so much, Kavi. Live big. Live like I’m not fucking dying. Like to lacquer the room with little bits of the last time I fucked in a threesome. Don’t have even a lie to say? Go, live. Bastards, don’t kill my vibe. Sometimes I need to be alone. All makes sense in my head. My skull is all Ansel Adams and not a trace of Dali.

Hide away. Run. Recuperate. Read through all the conversations you wrote down. To find where you fucked up. Can’t do that any more. Spent 10 months away from mixing your face, music in the little lilts in your larynx when you laugh, and the roar of your voice for all the times I legitimately earn a lashing. Don’t want to understand the tenor of your terror through text on touch screen. Can’t touch any of you, without terrorizing tea time with epic earshots of ego. Tales of me, to take out my thoughts. Place them like napkins tagged with ten hundred words about me. Speak alot, because I’m terrified you’re taking me the wrong way. I take those napkins and build tiny bits of toes, so you see sections of what I stand on.

Next to you, I feel so cold
Loveless in the afterglow
Do it again

Can touch myself, no maladroit pervo. Can take tough moments and tenderly sew them back into the fabric of my trousers. Can talk myself off any ledge, no matter how much my toes tap to jump. Not perfect, never try to take that thought anywhere. Not some Svengali, I suck myself into shittons of sinkholes. Used to be angry, took the piss ten times a night. So, I took 10 months to myself. Saw no one. Saw no tongue take a piece of my temple, while I rubbed it and rubbed it–trying to sort my shit out. Took your advice. Taped it to my nose. So that even in all the unbalanced ways my head moves, I wouldn’t lose it.

Feels like I did nothing. [That’s how you treat it.] Those tens months of taking every thing said about me out for a walk and wearing it out until it was a tattered, tooken care of piece of my sole. Fair or not? I didn’t care. Fought with every feeling, frustrated fist aimed for my then lack of heart. You offered ways to fix me. Heard it, every word. Fit them into my suitcase on my way to Thailand. Used them to blow myself to fucking pieces. Fit myself. My feelings. My contours. Against the contours of your fucking face. So I made sense, again. Not shouting Swahili at the ceiling while everyone else sings Spanish.

I’m wanting more
You know it’s everything about you
And I try so hard
And you’ve been hiding

You. Me. Best intentions often don’t come full circle. And I don’t even do half the 90 degrees it’d take to leave my room. Alone. Sanity. Birthday be fucking damned.

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Kavi Senior Editor. Currently based in Bangkok. I review dark indietronica/pop with my signature style of delving into the sexuality, sensuality and emotionality of every song. If you'd like me to premiere your track, contact me at the email below or at soundcloud.com/discordbeing