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NP Complete

by East Of The Wall

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I suppose it's quieter now…. You can't hear the wails enswarming? Well, that's a gasp of relief for this small room. God, just think of the stress if they're sated. Don't tend to the herds at thy gate. All the parlance in the fields - it's a tempting charade. The guilt gnaws worse in through all the sorry. So, no, we won't deal anymore. The pull of the faith, the bait of hope, tore through this road. That clawing outside? Why can't we simply turn back tides? Bring the mouths to the door - it's enough to turn cold. With the hands open palm, it's the blood that turns cold. I can't. Don't feel like you want to. Don't meet their eyes. Don't seem like you want to. Don't act obliged. Don't feel that tide's pull like you want to.
Lacking worth, but warming over. Switch on the varnishing tact for rewards. Taste is solely for lords and dandies. Wring out, shine up, the brightest turd in the world. Take enough to last a lonely ride. Taste enough to acclimate or cry. Back and forth, grizzled over, after the flavor is hacked to the winds. Wretched but shrugging, a single action. We knew, give or take, that polish lasted a day, tops.
We fled this with lurching stride. We fled this, a burst of fire and pride. Running away, no one can turn it around. Fury, sound. Smoke, it’s all those fires could sow - a prayer to sear the ground - a sole, raw plume in air, set to fall again. Slowly watching the crash exploding in slow-mo. It went on and on. Smoke. Alive, its limbs encroach with heaving breaths like bray. The spires rise, cascade, and we’re overrun. In time we’ll dream this way - a backdrop burned into the eye. It only shades how we haven’t won, and how much more to lose in that black eye. A golem congealing ash into form, filled in like Bezalel. It’s real. Willed up like fire, and to believe every homily shapes its mind. It’s real. It’s real. Lines of the throngs ignite, and wails fall, drowned. It molted viscous and rank - wrong, yet alive. By morning eyes have coalesced and leached off the light, reeling from qualia’s worst cryptic trial. So spread like wild, and flash down to soil. New heat wrapped around the stalks. What was once evergrown fuels best, and ends still. Won’t you forget? Won’t you have had enough of quandaries? What’s lost is lost. In the silence, after the eulogy, renounce all sides, all ties. “I’m done, I’m done.” In the silence, it’s enough to yearn and sigh, “I’m done.”
Somn 6 04:51
Strutted past partway, a tug on the shoulder. What should've been sly fell to the floor. Stricken halfway down, shrugged the remainder. Cutting the crash, sighed to the lights and out. Slowly shapes, estranged passersby, show revolt with grievance in mind. A moment in time, and swept up in flight, breathed in the smoke, and feeling exhaust. Scolded at midday, shook by the shoulder. Balanced in spite of the attempts. Passed out maybe once, then to the doorway. A gentle push, then harder along. The binding of woes, some alchemical ichor. Down it all, then just wait. There’s a light by the window. It’s old and it’s dull like the night. We’re here for a moment. Wipe off the proof of our lives.
Lienholder 06:58
Breathe it in, and you hold on. Breathe the words. Breathe the words. Write them down, so you hold on. Keep them in. Keep it in. As it builds, try to recall: Pain is real. A face is real. It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I'm confused, awake. I may have faux pas while in the world. Now I fear the blame. The script took shape, and I'm beholden. The cast has names. Smoke to page; ink to ballpoint; sheets to the air; unfold and crease; evolving shadows. It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I'm confused, awake. I may have faux pas while in the world. Now I fear to claim owner's fault. I may have played false, seduced by a word. Just a turn of phrase. Then I felt that gaze. I might have made faux pas while in the world. Now I feel the blame. Now I'll own the blame. Climb. Climb. Own that mountain. Carve shape. Face of human. Statues monumental. It seemed just words, yet suddenly whole. I'm confused, awake. I’ve made my faux pas, but now in the world, I fear the blame.
In lines, swayed by rhythmic decree concerning the expired. Sewn ties, thread through homilies. Net worthy. Past as sire. Designing a unison tune for pleasure, we misfired. The movement is still. Call your children out, hands held. Call. Response. When the flock is small, winning hearts is a straight and simple capture. None to boast. We sing along - nostalgia we shared. With the beats in common place, the chorus is "us". Believe it all, the earworms ingrained. When the verses ended, a measure is all we shared. Something fell behind, and it startled choirs who don't suffer surprise. With ears fatigued and tired, belt out gasping highs. Off beat, flat, they died. No one feels right, and they're all afraid. Blame it on a phrase. Blame it on their phrasing. Blame it on the changes resolving. A song in movements - once you're swept up, you're in. The pounding refrain, it breaks and it falls. You recall that you've been here, alive with sound. And the notion feels right - the meaning is home. Splayed on the floor now, the tune is missed. When the verses ended, a measure is all we shared. It's over. I'm sorry. All over. We’re behind. We’re out of time. In time, it fades in degrees, descending. But the choir.... Remind me of why we moved so quickly. We expired. What now? It's all I've done.
N of 1 05:25
Invite you in. Sit back, at the bar stool. A few down, it's stiller than planned, and most of us shy. There's a drop and refrain - sharp words, harsh beliefs. A few songs down, I'm wearied and I recant. And the singer's soft-spoken, still cunning but empty. It's enough to be hurt, a thumb in the wound. I should just walk and let it all glance by. In rhyme, rolling mantras calling on, each time, with the stanzas’ falling hum. Heaven knows my dirge. I've sighed and crooned each verse. It's over, and played out. I'll take my hat and bow. And the singers have spoken, grown cutting and angry. It's the goal to be heard, a thought from the wound. So I should comply, or think it over? I’m running away? No faith in this room - I should just balk and let it all slip by. Some in seven, some in nine. Crossed words. Some rhymes won’t work. Spite, emboldened yet trite, I’m weighed and lopsided. You cannot be hiding enough. I tried, time and every time. Gave up and I’m fried. Now retired, I gave enough. The song’s healing nostalgia soured. Now it’s merely maudlin. My sole tenor is drowned out. This din grew dischord. I’m bowing out. So no hesitation, swift on our way, or you’re drowned out. No reservations, no encore to play. I’m bowing out.


released March 29, 2019

East of the Wall:
Greg Kuter - Guitar/Vocals
Matt Lupo - Guitar/Vocals/Synths/Trumpet
Matt Keys - Guitar/Synths
Chris Alfano - Bass/Guitar/Vocals/Synths
Seth Rheam - Drums

Drums recorded by John Ferrara at Portrait Recording Studios. Guitars, bass, vocals, synths, and horns recorded by Chris Alfano at Volume Fact. Additional overdub and segue recordings by Matt Lupo and Matt Keys.

Mixed by Scott Evans at Antisleep Audio. Mastered by Brad Boatright at Audiosiege. Artwork by Byon Olson. Layout by Jacob Speis.


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East Of The Wall Keyport, New Jersey

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