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letra de nebulous nomad - max tringham

trusting anyone’s about a half step from a whole step away from one more left and you’ll get sprayed, so, what’s the point of catching fades when really we’ll just fade away?
and what’s the point of making music after there’s nothing to say to friends family and lovers that probably thought i lost my way, or that greatness
cause, h-ll, i’ll probably only die trying, and lately, i feel defined as if my life sat in orion’s belt. and h-ll, i’d feel safer if inside an asteroid belt circling round the universe in flocks following trails that were predefined thousands of times over till they fell right out that f-cking orbit trying to reach to some stellar objects
literally, that meanings in the letters and in my pockets, and if you think you want to be that, then sure, getting to stepping on me. but burning hot as lava ain’t gonna feel better than crawling and i could never give advice to a life designed with scorning
so i burn, warm on the inside, between hot and the cold. seasons and dreaming, leaving them both slouched on a stool while i”m drunk as f-ck stumbling between chuckling, feelings, and hope, just hoping that n0body leave me least not sooner than june
so i can make some f-cking music maybe someone puts it on their zune, and soon i’ll be all turned up even far as the moons of jupiter and stars don’t seem so far when in the rearview so i can rest in peace with you all knowing that i can’t hear you
and i can’t hear you. let me repeat: i can’t hear you
even now the sounds so malformed it can’t pierce you. i’m a lord f-cking crouched over toilet bowls but you don’t deserve me when i’m feeling to sound sober, so go
i’ve got a crown of th-rns i can hold on to, and it’s true, only because i know that i’m a god too. and not just me but you and you too, so don’t get offended when your problems are twofold, pretending defenses reside inside of bookfolds, i rely on my own incentives and fused hopes that i invented through visions of futures with doomed throats; cancer
written on top of broken skull bones and potently grown drough: d-mnit. i’m a king, but that doesn’t mean that i need a throne, so get the f-ck up out my face else this god will burn your home-
to the ground that you’ve been kissing. to the sound that you’re dismissing. i’m not vindictive only drifting around in my own glyphics, hypnotized by all the lies with my natural indecision. i create, i debate my own thoughts like they’re simplistic blistering simpler thinkers with nothing but a swisher and my cognition
noggin spinning, knocked right off its top by p-ssed off pigeons, flying round the sky like they own it, but its one that i have christened
you b-tching, i use and reuse two women
i’m sifting through tinctures wandering wallow in synonyms, l1cking the floor while all my hoes are swallowing cinnamon. picking illiterate ones so they can’t follow my volition its skittering cross the picture-esque pages tossed on top my trash can
sacked grams gone far before i’m ready to cash them, so f-ck it, i move forward hoping to score some blow or absinthe, and float away with all these horrors wh0r-s will surely p-ss me. i’m laughing, never holding a grudge or lunging at last week, and remember- i’m a god, so if i didn’t see you today, i saw you last week, and if not, its okay, you can clasp your hands together and ask me

- max tringham

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