i eat my soul
out,
eat my heart
out,
eat everything inside
until I am a wolf creature
outside
in the dark,
howling at the sickle moon,
raving at some girl
in a bar
who I could ****,
but don't want to,
I can't erase
the stain of that other star
and the nebulas
of bright crimson
and hushed cerulean
that flourished
in the disturbing galaxy
and it's black holes
*******
away at light,
so I come back home early,
stumbling
through the girls that talk about raw *******,
while there is one star of knowledge
distancing itself from me.

In what dimension did I imagine this
Not a very happy one. I pulled and brought this onto my cosmic dust

Im sure it’s a door. For it has brought me to a plane
They are good times and they are
Well they
are the ones i bare on my back every single day

A couple of sweet caress and the day you stabbed my heart with some sort of hell inducing sin
One most try to understand these words as they hit


How to get rid of this love
It is getting rid of me
For some reason you keep getting pushed into my realm of life

With each time of horrible down
. I think, you think we all think

It would be over

But as if some magnetic pull of thought brings you here
Every month , every day of every year
Consequently
Bringing us here , and you with some horrible sense of taste
Drag the devil on your tale.
Ofcourse it would be you , after all it is your favorite thing
You seek the feeling , as you may call it
Like a ******* animal

Im just wondering I what dimension this will happen , after a night like I know you had. How do you come to me with your sweet seducing lips and your wide eyes pulling out a guitar in the middle of some rich peoples parking lot

playing a melody you concealed in your memory of what i bring to you.

Ofcourse I will be melting in this reality.

How does this even happen
time after time  we have seen hell together

Rock and roll saves my life
Time after time
Theres something in the sound of god it sounds a lot like Hendrix

Stop touching my face
I can touch it all I want you’ll say
It’s hard
What if really funny hipster music helped me say this to you.

But maybe I should speak in your language
You’ve got some nerve coming here
You stoled it all give it back
Thom yorke reminds me of us
After all it reminds me of you


And as this happens my phone rings your name
It hurts
Its hard
You know you should
but you don’t

give it back
how to get rid of this love of mine
how to forget those nights I cried
his reality is in another time where he can separate the truth by hoping the future is kept.

what dimension am I living
I should be in Colombia
Col-OM-bia
My spiritual home to you I shall return.

I wirte to remember I remember to forget
It seems to work im tired of thinking of you

I even ignored your call
For today is the first day of many days where I attempt the so far impossible.

I will forget you.

My hands are not my hands
My voice is not my own
My lip never was my lip
But this blood is all mine.
The spoon sedated my fears and insecurities
It's tender metallic surface gleaning
And involuntarily shaking
As I lapped up alllll the yogurt.
I could use a cartwheel.
I don't want to sleep
I'm afraid of dying
as my back and forehead sweat in agony
My eyes don't open anymore
A steady beeping
A flickering fills the air around me
I told my brother I'll be back soon
If I stop
I'm writing with my eyes closed now.
My heart rumbles like a cannon shot
My only regret is how I never knew you better
Mr. Cobain.
We had such fun nights with Mr. Yorke
and Mr. Coyne
Just laughing
And taking turns rolling Thom's glass eye across the floor.
Spring training.
I'm laughing on my bed outside
Catching glances of the summer
Coiled and contemptuous
They go on their lives not caring
Who lives.
Who dies.
Three girls climbed into my window
They smelled of grass and
polyurethane
The children died 6 years ago
The Johnny Carsons of this life
And
GET OFF MY HAND *******
PASS ME THE FOOTBALL
Percodin.
Codin.
Coding.
I just turned the page
And I'll be ****** if I do it again

“oh ****!”


If Dan went white-face ghetto
And wore beatnick clothes
It'd be
AMAZING
The incisor broke my fall
Sorry.
No pork and beans today.
Ericccccc
Help my head
Chalk these mint leaves up to fate.
Because ******* are they good.
I'm reading your expression
On an empty pizza box.
You don't seem too pleased.
I fear
This ice in my tray made me soak my bed
Honest!
Flounder had a mohawk
I don't give a **** what you say.
His **** mohawk was badass.
His stubble made Sebastian jealous
A bed of ice is better than a bed of coals
Or a bed of cars
Or a bed of rice
But that would feel really, really good.
Take a guitar solo
Now a bass solo
Now a keyboard solo
Now a harmonica solo
Now beatbox, no go?
Maybe the former
The TRANSFORMER of course. I hope I live to see that one day.
Yes.

Even though I've been writing for years
(not that it's any better than when I started)
the title still holds true.

Words don't spill out,
thoughts don't process
like they used to.

Pieces need second checks for meaning,
thirds for grammar,
and a fourth for meaning.

Maybe it's the absence of physical affection;
certain chemicals aren't being triggered to release in my brain
but I decided if I couldn't keep my unspoken promises,
if I can't touch with a deep understanding of love
I will not touch at all.

It was shocking,
the impact one night could have
and so I have not had a second try
(or a six or seventh if we're counting).

I let the words of Thom Yorke
and Ezra Koenig say all that I cannot.

"Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
'Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
I can't kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart"

echoing through the dark sky from miles away
the sound of fireworks
and you said let's just close our eyes and listen
and I knew you saw the sparks just as I did
I wonder if you felt them
as we laid together in bed and talked
mental ********
I listen to the echo of your voice in my head
it doesn't want to end
the last look I caught in your eyes
before I fell asleep against you the night before
told me as much
and we lay here now
your arm on my waist
as if making sure I would still be by your side
when you wake up
is it weird wanting to touch your lips
while your soft breath passes steadily through them
or the suddenly heightened desire
to have your body pressed against mine
with your hands in all the right places
I question whether or not this is all going to stay
being so real
because I'm here writing in the dark
to the voice of Thom Yorke
and the sound of the fireworks I can't see
and when all that goes away

people always talk too much
and I try to sleep anyway
but silence is hard to come by
and you must silence
everything
with a knife.

(purebred aggressiveness
is preferable to casual ******)

even when solace arrives
in the morning,
as punctual as the mail,
your bloodstained hands
have still come away empty
and you still want to be held.
(too bad you don't let nobody
touch you, too bad they get the idea
after the riposte to the heart)
Of course they have survived it;
we lived in a civilized day and age,
after all,but they will still
steal furtive glances at you,
like they're waiting for something to
drain away the remaining time
until you next explode.
it's a fair price to pay
for the skill to breathe words
like mere ambient gases,
for free thought
and a good pen.
at least , I fell for it.
I was never good at bartering,
and what more could I ask
than to wield words?



and so the cycle continues!
life,death,ashes to egg,egg to
firebird,
firebird to ashes.
people will continue to
misjudge where they've stabbed you
and you will continue to
obediently burn all letters
and end up
listening
to Thom Yorke sing about
cheap *** and sad films.

party zone with johnny brown valentine jingles



johnny’   hi dudes and welcome to party zone and on tonights show

we want people to sing a jingle for valentines day and this is going to be cool

and our first jingle is rona singing about her lover george


oh george, my only love

you make me happy like a turtle dove

you see i know now, how much i love you

so george come back to me

you see i love you george and i know that is mutual

you see i love you more george better than pete and bruce yeah

we make love on the lawn outside your house

we will be as quiet as a mouse

you see i love you george that much is true

so that just means wollopolloo, i love you george

johnny’      thanks rona and now here is tony with his jingle about franceska

you are my sunshine, my dear franceska

you make me happy, knowing skies are grey

you see franceska, i know i love you

and i will bring the sunshine of franceska back

and mrs franceska bates, you are the sweetest lady i know

you are a very nice lady, ready for a kiss

you just go off like a snake going hiss

when you leave my house you are sadly missed

franceska bates you are my perfect bliss

johnny’   thanks tony, as we are enjoying these jingles about everyone’s valentine, top secret

and now here is ernie gibbs singing about his sweet sixteen girl, marlene

you see i love you very much

your body seems to warm to touch

marlene, you are my favourite bird

why do i call you a bird that is quite absurd

marlene i love you you are my chickadee

your sixteen your beautiful and your mine

do you want to *** me up

grabbing my ***** and putting it in my cup

i want to take you on a holiday

spending all last weeks pay on *** and love and ******* around

your sixteen your beautiful and your mine, i love you marlene

johnny’  thank you ernie and now here is mark with a song about harriett

you see when we die we get reincarnated, into another person

and if i die before you harriett, that is exactly what i want

i want you to move on, and have a kid, and i want to be reincarnated as that kid

i want you to hold me cuddle me, keep me warm

you see i don’t want our deaths stopping us from being together

you see harriett i love you on every day, especially on valentines day

you see harriett i am prepared for all my occasions on each life my soul takes

never to split us up

johnny’ thanks mark and now here is the band red tape to sing love me tender

and here it is now



"Love Me Tender"

Love me tender,
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.

Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfilled.
For my darlin' I love you,
and I always will.

Love me tender,
love me long,
take me to your heart.
For it's there that I belong,
and we'll never part.

Love me tender,
love me dear,
tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years,
till the end of time.

(When at last my dreams come true
Darling this I know
Happiness will follow you
Everywhere you go).




johnny’  ok dudes, it’s time for us to go, but we have a message from tony to yorke

i love ya i love ya i love ya you are my world yorke

johnny, time to go, catch ya later dudes

Radiohead – Fake Plastic Trees Lyrics

Her green plastic watering can for
her fake Chinese rubber plant
In the fake plastic earth

What she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber bands
to get rid of itself

It wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out

She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyreneman
Who just crumbles and burns

He used to do surgery
For girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins

And it wears him out, it wears him out
It wears him out, it wears him

She Looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love

But I can't help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run

And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out

If i could be who you wanted
If i could be who you wanted all the time, all the time
Songwriters: YORKE, THOMAS EDWARD/O'BRIEN, EDWARD JOHN/GREENWOOD, COLIN CHARLES/GREENWOOD, JONATHAN RICHARD GUY/SELWAY, PHILIP JAMES

thom yorke,
when will you teach me
that lightning does strike
twice, but the second time
the electricity ******* hurts
so much worse
because you know
just what's coming

it's not there,
i feel it

Life’s ostensibly dead weight pulls downward, maddeningly consistent in its campaign to fell him.
Its moribund song is maniacally hummed by he who seems to mourn with his limbs as he walks,
Soul skulking petulantly as suicide-bees formicate wildly beneath his scalp;
He dreams of his post-mortem feast.

Gazing intently at his doodle-strewn bedside wall,
Cringing as he reads those scribbled aphorisms he had erased the day before,
He wonders if the bees were ever really there in the first place.

He writes, ‘Ire-inducing idleness. Vapid, vacuous days;
He is man’s antithesis, ****** from sentiment.
His is the syphilitic brain of one filled with disdain
For all those who threaten his thinly-veiled comfort,
The thespian of truth, he’d play the faux jumper.’

The elevator comes to a halt.
Exiting, he sees someone has left the door open for him.
Climbing cautiously to the roof, he is met with an angry gust upon stepping outside.
The solemn timbre of T. Yorke resounds as he drunkenly stumbles across the pebble-laden surface,
And as he sidles along the ledge he realizes that nothing is infinite.

Silence is now. The sun is risen 5 hours where you are. It is the deepest twilight here, traffic lights disrupting. My window is playing a videotape of an invisible sunrise. It was directed by viking film students. They included your paintings in the credits. i hate to spoil the ending, but i leave you. The soundtrack was going to be radiohead, but Yorke’s record label yanked it. So silent film. Silent students acting like they never learn for my benefit. If it isn’t already obvious, the film is me. And you’ll never read this letter, as i’m already loading it into the movie reel and projecting it into snowy pine trees somewhere in Canada that i’ve never been.

Previous Lover and Grateful Friend,

love is patient,
love is kind.

thom yorke keeps telling me that true love waits
so why do i feel that waiting has made me weak.
(like i'm letting you get away with something)

i am not patient,
nor kind.
i am envious, and boastful.
i keep a record of how wrong i feel.

"Twist. I always get chocolate twist." I smiled down at the cup. Sunny day in south north central new jersey. Good day for custard. Good day to die. Good day for anything, really.
"Of course,"
"You say that a lot."
"Because I concur with you, a lot?"
"Hem. Hm. Ha" A low hum and then a laugh.

   A lot can change. It has. In fact so much had changed I could hardly keep track. The days followed each other closely with vague hints of urgency- I did not know why, figured that was for later. This was a change- both things. Things had never seemed to carry much weight and for the first time in years I was really just content with seeing things play out.
Peter Yorke and his orchestra played in the car ride home. "Love, here is my heart." OH, If only it were that easy. A simple offering, or presentation.  The sun beat down relentless. Earth was dying and all the great works of art anything that was ever to be made had been accounted for and done.

When you were here before
Couldn't look you in the eye
You're just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
And I wish I was special
You're so ******' special
But I'm a creep, I'm a ******.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.
I don't care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I'm not around
You're so ******' special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep, I'm a ******.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.
She's running out again,
She's running out
She's run run run run
Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You're so ******' special
I wish I was special
But I'm a creep, I'm a ******,
What the hell am I doing here?
I don't belong here.
I don't belong here.
Songwriters: Mike Hazlewood / Albert Hammond / Colin Greenwood / Jonathan Greenwood / Edward O'brien / Philip Selway / Thomas Yorke
Creep lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc

i just saw a feather fall from out of nowhere but i
cannot be deceived anymore
i take in everything through salt circles
i always let my sentiments float
open the box at the wrong end i want to
grab a hold of them and
smash them against the wall i do not like
Pandora anymore

my limbs blank limbs blank
i cannot feel how i am leaning over
dotted lines i am consumerism
scared eagerly not falling but simply icing another
dimension having dinner regularly
doing everything completely right
helpfully fully conscious rambling of the wall
black flies fingernail tinted dumb
at the height of a crap-seated liquorice fashion

and Thom Yorke politely knocks on my ribcage
Are You Okay: No
then he sings I will eat you alive I will eat you alive I will eat you alive I will eat you alive
when you sigh again i can see your breath like an ice cloud it's
because you are cold from the inside it's
because some radiator is stuck in there obviously
even when i see you walking
your limbs are somehow frozen

even Camus is at a loss:
"what i'm getting at is that the emptiness
should be happy i am so
sorry life is absurd in all
sorts of airplane crashes
and twin towers you'd
expect both of you to go down but
here you are i see you
shrinking without him"
and when i see you in the train cabinet my
heart knocks politely on my ribcage: Are You Okay?
No
and then i realise it wasn't you someone
had the same effect of me latching my eyes onto you wanting
to talk to you wanting to talk to you wanting to
talk to you not wanting to talk to you using
this train for other purposes, example:
How To Disappear Completely
Thom Yorke even apologised for the similarities dear
i know this makes you think of him just listen one more minute it will
hurt just enough the whole world hurts just enough doesn't everything remind you of him? even the others's lips are rough insofar as they scratch memory's fragility oh god
it comes in waves and i push my tail deeper into
the water
du bonheur et rien d'autre
write me another piece of ******* you closed
the door in my face then i put a lock on it and now
i plead i keep on standing in tall grass, tiny horses
and thumbs might **** me