North Carolina

by Decomposure

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released August 28, 2009

All songs written and recorded in Avon, North Carolina from May 12-16, 2009, except Brave New Pope recorded in St. Jacobs, Ontario on July 10. Words, vocals, production, etc. by caleb mueller (SOCAN/ASCAP). Engineering and post-production by Arnar Helgi Adalsteinsson @ Lalaland. Photography by Nicole Mueller.



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Decomposure Kitchener, Ontario

i live my life differently. i have it together for fish in the sea. but let's go back to the tv screen.

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Track Name: Whiteboard (Tuesday)
eat standing up, wiring your lungs
to the inbox’s daily breath;
parsing your pie charts
until you’re thinking with a yawn pressed to your head.

some things are written so that you can erase them.
where would you be if you walked the path you believe(d) in?

you’ve got a long long way to go;
it will be gone before you know.

when did the framed sky drop the sun?
drained and already what you’ve become,
starting first thing tomorrow,
after all this important stuff gets done.
write your latest last words in a note,
fold it into a paper boat,
and push it into the ocean.
watch from the shore as it’s lost in the dark below.
Track Name: Artwork (Wednesday)
hands in a funnel,
a mute caved-in skull.

sight hotglued to frames,
thoughtloop on splaying grey shoots through prisms,
top corner locked ommmm icons
for bacon and dry hair.
tumor siphoned into the mouths of amputees
with arms and legs on plastic,
curled in tubes at their purple lips
and eclipse the moon of cheese or an action flick
with slow motion roundhouse kicks
to pick your poison of harmless.
your arteries grass, bristling last on the wasteland arms.

through the periscope, you see nothing less:
a body to consensual grapefruit, processed.
a wrung cloth over a fence,
well, i asked the blackness in my steps
in a revealing dress,
so i guess i had it coming.

no swimming, i walked out here just to go back,
to empty days in graduated cylinders and live off the fat.
the night narrows from their headlights for whitenoise, then it pass.
your socks will never get wet.
fluid frozen or burnt to disc,
locking a low-contrast reflection underneath so your chin stays low.

stabbing deadlines;
a proud pile of pencil shavings in the teeth of a desk,
a folded towel on a lazy susan thrown in a fountain,
summer’s coming again.
an evaporated ice age’s secrets scattered across the brown
and no chest behind my drawn blinds for reduced glare, incognito.

life evolves in the craters of dead moons, scientists say,
if we could only look longer we will make contact
and peace with these new lifeforms,
with increased funding and a few more exploratory drones.
these crafts run on the skinning of caged dreams,
treading muffled screams into the suit of a spiral
on a propeller that cuts throats into premature mouths
to boil that grey bird down to a bitten pearl
no oil drill could strikethrough,
a night none can swim through.
Track Name: Past the Post (Thursday)
i’ve been chewing the same old cud for years,
drawing circles the way i wander.
i have scoured the world and picked it clear
to the edge of the fence. beyond there,

i know past the post
there’s something better than this dry wasteland.
please lord, let me go;
it’s been forever since i last tasted life.

i’ve got to get over it.

so when i jumped the post
i thought i’d land in a new place,
but when i jumped it
all i found was boundless empty space.
and i fell down,
off the edge of time,
and kept on falling.
Track Name: Baptism (Friday)
a step in the sand, cut to quick, the air bitter and shrunk. from resolve to bills, a starkstill golden profile smokes by flat glare. brittle bare branches swipe silence in freezeframe, only hairlight and breath flinch. grown in the mirror, a continual flat expanse. a skunk on a bridge, tiny creatures with wide eyes offscreen in the foley room or posed in silhouette and no flashlight. the forest in photocopy, its grey tail snaking and stiff, dreaming whatever woods dream. my hands go white. breathing pillows for curse, these dark skinny fires forked into the soft sparkling black above while anemic reflections suck hard against the green, its new north. you bow and snort water in the reverb of your trite childhood capsule and know the cold fluid cupped in your chest feeding the cloud intravenously shallows by rent and rain to waste wet and drink my own urine, shunning milk and egg. all is hours to a clock or a timebomb, recognizable shapes to a developed eye; a tail: bone and gut wrapped in fur, wag decoded and split into its constituent parts, and oh so wait... cataloguing every caress of shadow against the wall, shoulderchecking, selecting the rarest foam to warm your pale cheeks against, waiting for a ride and a moonrise with a pile of equipment. there will be no bailout for a collapsed lung on lined paper; a creaking door fast closing a foot wider. you could spend your sleep crawling for classmates and lost songs and plunging your teeth into said lung. instead run to herbalone crystals and shun the snow leopard’s tail; the hail shatters the tap clamping your backstory shut by office supply, to set and beget and reset dry toes and hunched spine in the dust before shore, though the seas scab back and stagger in the fog of war to the lighthouse. meanwhile, huddled in spreadsheet riddled dream, ears back and curl, a new moon is patterned and pearl. from spit a swirl, stitched in nebulae, a charon in chyron under each utterance, burning fat in our mouths, cutting time to eras like carrots and old baseball caps left on the train.

my ears smell like honey.
don’t put me down,
i’ll be good from now on.
scattered like dance club flyers
along the walk
beside an empty parking lot.
Track Name: The Culture at the Time (Saturday)
i’m just trying to be friendly;
for that to happen we should scrap all we believe.
the truth is always changing,
and we can’t think ahead without forgetting everything.

look forward, not behind.

think of it in terms of this analogy:
you’re a brick wall and i am a trampoline.
it’s fun to jump up horizontally on me,
and when it storms, i’m where everyone retreats,

so build your house on springs.
don’t think of padded walls.

that was the culture at the time,
it doesn’t matter now.
we’re finally making progress,
so don’t hold it up
to the light.
that was the culture at the time,
it doesn’t matter now.
take your haircut and we’ll compromise.
sever anything to stop a fight.
Track Name: Brave New Pope (Home)
they say the sun don’t revolve ‘round the earth,
but it does when you live on the sun, oh.
the sun ceases to be when the earth goes dark,
dreaming under a dead moon.

heaven’s held in a bowl -
out of reach, but surely close.

they say all are equal under the sun,
but they’re not: some aspire to greater arcs
with pointed purpose and hats rising closer to god,
more than merely human.

heaven’s held in a bowl -
out of reach, but surely close.
well, i shall be infallible.
pad the equations when they’re broke.
burn unbelievers in their homes.
blot out the day with their black smoke.
in control and all alone.