(circuit bent zoo)

(rich s(h)acks) (sachs)

with the black end of a shitty stick i hit bingo, from ten feet away, with the foot in front fooled into feigning time and the clock tricked out for more rope, i reached for the ceiling (and started tagging up the stall), popped the ball, kicked the missed field goal, dreamt out every ref (every whistle thru the middle) remain forget (got and always getting) floppy driven, fucked off huffing puffed-chest houses down and egging on rent, fucked in the fruit, no branches attached, raw fucking the fruit (out of the fruit) out of the lemon, we made apple pie, and carrots on sticks (10,000dollars in debt in front of all of us) hens on beakers, god in sneakers, most soggy donut going for the dunk, rocks around my ankles sinking in the speakers, dreams of feedback, bloat in the tweeters, concentrated to pulp, kissing for a pulse, snap-shotting every ghost, (with the hacked end of a tapped phone i hit 'caller number 6billion8millionand9') with the black end of a shitty stick i was hit with a lotto stone, click the double bolt, wouldn't touch the cow(cheese) with a mouse or the bait on a (spring)loaded thunderbolt, cult out the summersaults, fist first (finger up) into the blindfold, fishing six feet in from the muddy end of a temporary stick, hit the bag of money like a bagged up body, rob me in the heart where it counts, hobby off the knack, savvy through the software (10 foot spoon)supper in your soupbowl, sagging your sheepclothes, hit me in the tree-house, climb out of me on purpose, the automaton will only stutter (with you) to keep up, won guts first, knows out in the grave, made of more and too much (a slave's weapons is his chains) pave the moon in me, oil drum the number one dance till the rain runs out, the machine gun mounting his lance, the gavel mounting its gavel (street art eating chips in its living room) (off its shoulder) gravel through the yellow paint, panting in the tapered way, pucker at the lip-service, soaking in the gamma rays, best cancer on the market (hit the penthouse for me would ya) 2 bluffs only on the cliff please, pass the umbilical to the right, height in the masturbate, foam around the farmer's gate (cows all lost it) slave around the mop bucket, rolling out the fly tape, soapbox searching for its faucet, first amendment seeking out its sponsor (donkey riding elephant) - red carpet on the mc's lip (spit lines) politic like sticks in the sand, time looking for its place in the glass, prisoners looking for their stripe, zoos searching for their zebras, with the black end of the television i hit lock wide open, hiding from the cameras, stand still long enough to scab, our paper cuts were golden tickets in cheap chocolate on food stamps, trying to lick a letter closed, the sentence came out all shovel and hard hat, no fish in its hand, chanting a hook, hitchhiking on a rollercoaster, all winners in a flat bell, all bottoms in a wishing well, missions on a pissing break, wrist-slitting contests in a public leak bucket, tapping on a wallet, slap me where i want it, even if i'm dead, my pulse is worth pawning, hawk me up in the morning, this is the color blood you wanted, worn it around my neck as gold, always dangling down to the edge of my awning, hang a sign on my sign, put another arrow where the point goes, dead on, eating the already lived in apple off my head, in a tv tray, going for the jello, jerking off a cactus, pennies out, wishing in a mirage
the blackest whale wins the most tar, keep your stones and your breath to yourself, some houses are made of glass, some fog was meant to be written in, some windows don't recognize their view how many mountains have you made, and forgotten

this poem is the shack stuffed up in the cliff like a shirt, asking for another button

this afterthought is the avalanche that never lands
count your feet

a tear with a thousand faces

dear mom (and not really)


from You Were Murdered As A Kid, released September 30, 2011
produced by Frietboer
lyrics and vocals by Brad Hamers



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Dust On Snow (Brad Hamers & Frietboer) Netherlands

Dust On Snow is a collaborative musical project, an agitated and frothing monster created by poet, musician and collage artist, Brad Hamers and beat-maker/producer, Frietboer. On this 8 track debut EP, Brad Hamers (Phlegm, Two Ton Sloth, New Police) provides the words and Frietboer (Frietboerism 1/5, Fiks, Fris & Dood) supplies the beats. ... more

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