[DARK INDIETRONICA/HIP HOP] Grimes- Realiti // Nosaj Thing- Cold Stares

[DARK INDIETRONICA/HIP HOP] Grimes- Realiti // Nosaj Thing- Cold Stares

[DARK INDIETRONICA/HIP HOP] Grimes- Realiti // Nosaj Thing- Cold Stares


ignacio1Cold stares. Laptop LED lights make light of the moment. You are dead. They illuminate our four eyes off heart monitors, IV bags, bars.bars.bars.so.many.fucking.bars making up this bed, windows that look out to lower Sukumvhit as it shines back. Back into eyes of cold stares.

We’ll leer over the edges of death
Not always the same
Welcome to realiti

I told you I loved you. I didn’t mean it. It was the last thing you heard. It was the last thing you needed to hear. You, Ignacio from Rio, the orphan spirit who screamed into Bangkok traffic. You shouted then to be met by the violence of headlights. Crash back into physical reality. Into touch. Into someone looking right into your fucking eyes. Even if it’s to bawl in Thai “where.the.fuck.are.you.going? And why don’t you get out of life’s way?” And still, I feel my words shattered you more. Than the entirety of the road running over your spine. Those words. The shortest lie. I.Love.You. Gave you the freedom to let go. To let the cancer crush your cerebellum. To give me a cold stare in return for words that killed me.

Cold stares in the night, tears roll down
Another sad clown sittin’ in the room
Eyes rain tears but do you really love me

It wasn’t about me. And how fucked up I am. How fucked you are. Fuck, were. We were two kids in a foreign land without a care in the world. Carefree because there was no one to care. You, I. Never really connect once we heard you have a papa. Oh, your mother gives your meds. Disconnect. Disassociate. Hearts awander. Asunder. We were letting chemo cut us up, and we used the pieces that fell off in the hospital to craft stories. Of new realities. Of the after. Of the new reality. Realitie. Realiti. Of #PostRealiti we made all on our own.

On an empty ass bed,
Can’t remember how to spoon
Can’t forget how the spoon
Was the bowl for the soup for his arm

You stripped away your hospital gown. Laid there naked letting the wind go to battle with your chest hair. It rustled enough to start a war on your pecs. I watched as you took your hands and rubbed them down each pore of your body. Not a millimeter missed by your fingers. As if to imprint the muscles. The cock. That beckoned boys from all over Brasil to your side. That still had the power to call me. To crawl over to you. Forget my IV. Marathon that Weeds show I’d been raving on. Carry my broken pieces over here to spoon. Spoon you into #PostRealiti. You knew you were going to die.

Bed, bed I rest in
Not my own
These covers make me itch
Hurt my head, head I question
Not my own
These covers make me sick

Took me awhile to know. Lying there in your arms. Feeling your temperature soar. Your hand grip mine to the bed when I tried to grab the night nurse. Little energy left in you, furious enough for me to stay put. To let you go. You were never going to see Nancy Botwin get to Mexico. The cold stares were coming. Your cells started to kiss the air goodbye. I kissed your lips all the same. Your heart gave up part of its fight. Still pleaded. For that birth certificate. That gave you a name outside tragedy. Battle scars where love had shot you with a motherfucking revolver. Just once. At least.

I love you, Ignacio.

When his arm had a cold
Now the cold got his feet
Tied up in the sheets, sweat drips from his cheeks
He’s gonna die in hospital clothes


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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