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letra de conductor - lt headtrip

oh my drunken conductor, lend me your hands. take a wrench to my best laid plans. my stoned composer, lend me your ear. share your thoughts and your untethered fears. my wrecked director, lend me your eye. spill your ink on my precious designs
share your guidance

he leaves a trail of pigment and text strung in his path like so many liquid bread crumbs on a map. if he strays from home his pen name will get him back. he’s painted the city sanguine; he’s brushed his lungs black. the streets hold the walls of his unassuming gallery. his rugged paws hold the hues of his pallet. he’d scout like-hearted recruits from the ruins of battlefields and invite them to fight for their passion. a human, a valkyrie. when he’d grace my studio, he’d stay on the balcony. l!ck another rollie, take a sip and light the bogie. wrote his name on a folding chair and the window
in my vestibule so i’d remember him every time i entered. you’d swear never once in your life met a lush so prudent with his thoughts. if only that was true about his heart. if only that was true after dark, after a shot or too many, after the booze dulled that beautiful spark

my friend’s a smoker, and a lover and a soldier

oh my drunken conductor, lend me your hands. take a wrench to my best laid plans
my stoned composer, lend me your ear. share your thoughts and your untethered fears
my wrecked director, lend me your eye. spill your ink on my precious designs
my drunken conductor share your guidance. the blind lead the blind just fine through the darkness

his h.q. was home for a stray few and sanctum for many refugees longin’ to make due. his kitchen table was engraved with visitors’ handles and stained with cigarette ashes and they always came through. i copiloted sessions of dope sonic inventions and wrote wild and reckless to those progressions. he slowed time with the tempo control slider. his methods are both violent and gentle. explosive impressions. he’d flip a psychedelic sample into gibberish and sync it up s-xy on some punk rock ricochet. then hit a microscopic ramble of a melody and stretch it out to merge into his junkyard symphony. his eyes bluer than his mood somehow. his lies truer to his loosened self. could use some help, and he ain’t scared to ask for it. i’m just worried he don’t think that he’s worthy of happiness

see, my friend’s depressed. i hope that it’s okay to be a mess

my friend’s a writer. my friend’s a smoker. my friend’s a crier and a lover and a shoulder
his head’s on fire. his chest smolders. my friend’s just uses his extinguishers for throw ups though
my friend’s a teacher. my friend’s depressed
our friendship’s taught me it’s okay to be a mess sometimes
but when it’s dire, i wish he’d slow down
i hope he’ll try to quelle the fire in his soul now
my friend’s a rider. my friend’s a soldier
an old soul with a young man’s aura
his head’s on fire. his chest smolders. he only uses fire extinguishers for throw ups

- lt headtrip

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