Chonny Jash | TAKEN FOR A RIDE | Chonny Jash @ChonnyJash | Uploaded 1 year ago | Updated 17 hours ago
Electric Guitars provided by M. Kenny (check out Tripsitta (AND THIS SONG!) on Spotify!)

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LYRICS:

Marvin walked into a helpless land and wondered lightly
“Am I happy?”
“Is this happy?”
Following the footsteps left by man,
he stepped to reprimand the mystic,
so sadistic.

Better half a century passed on later,
thought I’d be the next curator
of this story.
Fifteen months, not faltered once.
Victorian dunce turned pico-luminary.
This is scary.

Listening to painted whispers.
Pastel wailings. Matte disquiet.

Next, the stranded cynic sits and toils,
his fits and foils written slowly.
Nothing’s holy.
Emotion vs. Cognition,
trial the pathos/logos fission,
this explosion of devotion.

Lonely, sulking halves that wanted
just a taste of closure to implore them
to start living.
Thirty hours each, with minimal outreach.
Not for sale; for fun.
It’s free, friend.
Come to the deep end.

Gazing on the abscessed silence.
Woeful strokes of chordal whims.

One solitary smile
to go that extra mile.
To make me feel today.
To make it go away.
The chemistry is gone,
taken for a ride.
Far away from you.
No longer left inside.

Actor with his trident, crown and blindfold
smiled and counted three-by-ninefold.
Is it over?
Or is he just a cycle now interned?
A bridled foreword;
the beginning
of an era.

Study, write, practice, record, program, mix, master, film and edit.
Then publish to the ether.
Rinse, repeat, sir.
When questioned, simply smile and wave,
look on your pile and say
“Well I’m no lightweight.”
Jesus Christ, mate.

Listening in tandem to a sorrow of forgotten hills.

One solitary smile
to goad these woes and wiles.
To help me see the day,
I’ll happily throw away
this chemistry of old,
these beakers and vials.
Far away from through,
I’ll come back in a while.

One secondary smile
to go that extra mile.
To make me feel today.
To make it go away.
The chemistry is gone,
taken for a ride.
Far away from you.
No longer left inside.

There are no secrets anymore.
I’ve laid them all out on the floor.
{([They’re all for you.])}

You want something?
You know more about me than my family.
All these sick, unsightly maladies.
Staving off the due insanity.
Haptic feedback, half-baked blasphemies.
Twenty-seven songs are yours;
my blood, my sweat, my open doors.
I’ve hurt, reviled and reconciled.
Five hundred fucking hours, and I’m finally getting bored.

This story isn’t over.
I’m not sure that it’s begun.
But I’d just like to spend some more time enjoying being one.
My quill is dry. My flat-line, nigh.
My tears, arranged and poured.

And yet still you want for more?


Marvin:

I think it's better when you don't plan things... because you get too disappointed in things. But, I- this wasn't planned, it just grew. Started one little machine, then two, and five, and six, and... Only thing I'd probably do is like to have a bigger place to display more things, not get rid of 'em. But on the other hand, big is not better, it's, better is what's better, I think.
How do you like that quote? 'Better is better.'