Journals EP

by sword swallower

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released April 17, 2012

Recorded and mixed at Friend's Parent's House.

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sword swallower Chicago, Illinois

Christopher Cendejas - Drums
Marno - Vocals
Vince Aguilar - Guitar
Dave Collis - Bass

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Track Name: Ghost Food (Ghosts Are Overused and So Are Long Song Titles)
Another family member died today. I'll have to miss work and all I can fucking write is "I". All I can say is "my". Please tell me how to feel. How am I so selfish? All you have to do is tell yourself to fucking stop. Lately I've been having this nightmare where I just can't seem to get to sleep. So do I continue mending the wings to a paper griffin, drinking from volcanoes and speaking ash or do I give in to the naked archer, straight forward and exposed? None of it matters at all. How much of what I'm saying is true? Do I even believe myself? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. All I can fucking write is "I". All I can say is "my". Please tell me how to feel. How am I so selfish? Asking this question only furthers my point. How are you? I don't care. Or do I? How am I so fucking selfish?
Track Name: The Faucet and The Wrench
This new years eve I’m staying in with my best friend. We can cook shitty food, discuss the movies that you don’t like and books that I haven’t read, but please don’t worry. I’ll still kiss you with that cold sore. I’m sorry your father ruined Christmas this year, but I still think that he’s fucking hilarious. Neither of us could fathom our potential for happiness and when I wake up tomorrow, next to you without a hangover, I will say, “Every year, from now on, will be the best year of my life.” I love you.
Track Name: Tex Avery Eyes
I've held in my hands, my intestines, for ten years. Presenting the wounds, the knots, the self repairs. (and you) Even in my dreams you're fucking ugly. You soaked them in alcohol, an anesthetic disguised, before the match. I'm not one for revenge, (eye for and eye is a lie for lie to yourself) but the last time we fucked I imagined you gutted. There was no blood. I never saw you bleed. Alas, without your disgusting fucking hollow self, I wouldn't have taken several planes, praying for hell, landing on an undiscovered island of painless fire and tangible dreams, surrounded by the tears of Azlan. So, I thank you. So, I brand myself: Regret's for the birds.
Track Name: Funeral Faces
Just because my mother wants to call her sister's husband a brother does not mean that I have to say uncle - even if he just died. I won't lie. I've heard this all before. My perception of this room is the set of a play, center stage: a coffin, and surrounding this audience of one are the players with their funeral faces on. It's a congregation of well fed mummies and drugged bears. Apparently I have some loose wires because all I see are the eyes fixated on the electricity radiating from me, but the only thing shocking is the ignorance to conditioned tear ducts. So, how do you apologize for not crying? Well, I cried. While I was carrying his body I cried, but I was drunk. Just for the record, I no longer believe in right or wrong, big or small, heaven or hell. Just myself.