Farris & Himself EP

by Farris & Himself

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1.
02:55
2.
02:12
3.
03:10
4.
02:02
5.
02:15
6.

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Vox/rhymes performed by Alex Cardenas aka "HIMSELF"
Beats/prod. - Stephen Farris

All songs written and recorded by Alex Cardenas and Stephen Farris in an apartment by the water, With the exception of Domingo which was recorded at the LIMB house and remixed by Stephen Farris.

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released January 6, 2011

Alex Cardenas, Stephen Farris

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Farris & Himself Houston, Texas

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Track Name: Pitch Black
I'm killing roaches with Bic lighters
Fighter pilots with hang gliders.
The same fight or flight complex
Nonsense for the fame writers.
We tamed the bully up the block
And stole his milk money,
Now he says that he found God
And I thinks still funny, real funny.

I'm hunting rats I give my money to the upper-class
a dozen cats fight outside my door each night
for mating rights.
It's the type of off-white glow you see from safety lights
I think we might start a fire for the sake of being right.
Fuck it, none of us can sleep at night
None of us can see the explosion when the fuse ignites.
We all try to fly despite opposing forces right?
I think we need to learn to walk before the gift of flight.

I could have asked the dancer why she danced in The clouds, what's her motive?
As if the history of lucid dreams were serene
When the book was opened.

Sometimes I can't describe
A pale moon on a bad night.
So I grab at the thought of a buck,
No luck, well that's life.
You're my artificial flower,
Cat fights and bagpipes.
It was everything I needed
Complete with landmines.
It was a Howard Roark complex
And an honest view combined.
I'm a makeshift Shakespeare
Vacant, patient, waste of time.
It was the last one whistling
An old song that came to mind.
While everything that happened last week
Is in the backseat,
Time to ride.
Track Name: Indigo
Shadows grew longer in the apartment, 4 p.m.
The second floor is devoid of the wars employed
To feed him.
I'm not speaking of the bloodshed, but we payed a
high cost.
Much more than open signs, broken spines,
and lives lost.
No vitamins in the cobblestones or hollow roads
She followed home.
The beauty sat all alone writing poems no one knows.
If it all goes exactly as we planned my words in the dirty hands of those who can't understand.
It was perfect! A masterpiece! The irony had spited me.
I can see compliancy had no right to be inside of me.
And I believe variety will grow to be the highest tree,
Societies iron teeth won't let the giant free.

This is between me and everything that I've seen
That was a spitting image replica of church bells
When they ring.
The wind exists for the birds and air for the lungs.
I'll share the last smoke I got
With the corner-store bums.
This is Tuesday lobotomy and a doomsday prophecy
I'll take a pack of Red shorts and a couple of picks
On the Lottery.
This city has a bloodstream,
It's polluted and highly flammable.
Mechanical ventricles sputter
And the rubber atrium is a calloused hole.
We can't go back we're too far in the euphoria.
The wasteland's an oasis and the angels
Are the whores we know,
The horns they blow are warped from summer heat,
Harps with rusted strings,
We're gone, tangled up in a mess of drunken thieves.
It was enough for me to believe
In the pulse of flowing streams, the pollination of the bees,
And all the ships sailing east.
With a handshake and tip of my hat
I'd like to thank you
It was a tough trip here, but we made it so we're grateful.

It doesn't matter really because it's time to go to work.
With a purpose to fill our purses with the objects we have purchased.
In turn watch the joy of creativity become worthless
I'm certain that this person is the perfect gift of service.
Track Name: Echo
God is trivia, bent walking stick teaspoon full of Lithium.
Stephen stole the colors off Picasso's Three Musicians
Sampled the Cubism now its VHS Visions.
Performed free admission.

I need to start writing there's a blockage in my brain.
A struggle between the mouth, tongue, and my pen.
I should write about politics, and congressmen, republicans,
One hundred men who vote for the death of the lowly ones.
I'll hold a gun, hold up son!
I'll write about an open window. Vagabond fern that will go where the wind blows.
And if those ideas evolve and grow legs
I should hold them until they're old enough to pay rent.
Wait! I should write about a woman that I knew
Who would only kill a cockroach if God told her to.
She prayed for bombs to hit the roof
The itch she'd finally soothe
With a skull-and-crossbone bazooka that found the truth.
I felt stupid once I knew the topics on my plate
Had a place on the paper that was greater than her shame.
Placing all the blame on a shapeless form again.
Thought of fate as an insult I was a Nihilist born-again.

Brave the storm and winds hurricane force in full effect.
I'll place a bet when the eye hits I'll be the only writer left.
I'll tie myself to the bars of your sturdy prison cell.
When the wind comes we'll yell a battle cry, "Give it hell!"

So this is where I live it's my block; Writers block.
A life-long sacrifice to the scavengers of finer arts.
Where lovely harps are played by fingertips that bleed.
The mouth forgot to talk, the palms that long to plead.
A noble steed it came; no teeth, a beast to tame.
Unleashed a plague of locusts that died with morning rain.
Same story again, same writer, same pen
Making pictures in the college-ruled paper I'm writing in.
I should write about the day that my friends began to melt.
Relieved to see a relief a better version of themselves.
We held our hands to the light and described what we saw;
Ten skilled digits that could build defensive walls,
Eventually they'll fall and we'll stand in the aftermath.
A habit that had landed in the hands of my father's dad.