Lyrics and Prose

These first two were songs I wrote still in Brazil for my band Ignis, which never saw the light of day. They were translated from Portuguese, which made them even more nonsensical than they already were. PVC was a rant against the artificialization and comodification of every day life, while The Path of Happiness is more self explanatory.

Perpectiva de Vida Civilizada (PVC)

Enjoy it!

Life comes in small plastic containers, pills of happiness in our perfectly hypocritical society. Delight yourself in a life drenched in gasoline, blood and diet soda. Are we the consumer or the product? Are we the living or the lived?

Fuck all conditions for constant betterment, chaos is the child of excessive order. Probative. Contemplative. A life of cheap and remotely controllable optimism. The taste of cement and toothpaste in your mouth. We are free being living in a zoo.

There is life, there is plastic, and they want to substitute one for the other
Kill death, clone man, product productor produced.

Before there was God, but He got old. Zigots and tubes get ready for creation. Believe me, your life will be better when your daughter is born in a microwave. We accept lies as fact and facts as gods. Is the substitution of the actor for the action. Death for ressurection. The new miracle and the same old shit

There life, there is plastic and death is in the latter
Sell death, devour man, room service for your faith.

The Path of Happiness (Sexophobia/Fuckophobia)

The way of sublimination extends through the mind of civilized man like a let of nylon strings and needles. The wounds were open with religious prejudice’s emancipation, and now it is proud to drink the blood of the faithful from little paper boxes sold on supermarkets. The fires of hell are created by the sparks of uncertainty and tradition kept lit by the fear in everyone’s hearts. It is in this state of contemplation and servitude that we fear our desires and our nature, and we segregate and humiliate those that have the courage we lack. From pure cowardice. Hatred is born. From pure cowardice. We relegate what attract us to an object so it cannot hurt us anymore. No feelings. No pain.

And when he finally got somewhere
He found himself in a cross street and the signs said
that heaven and hell were on the left

He found out that if he kicked the signs and destroyed the maps
He would find what he was looking for
Which was nothing

But if he questioned everything, what would be left to question?
It would be a rebellion without a target and the nothing would be hs constant companion.
And all he ever wanted was to destroy his loneliness.

Self-Form

I’m not a model of form
not a conquest of pride
I’m not an example of love
not a derivation of life
I’m the proud and brutal son of the earth
living in an age of darkness and hate
Away from the mass of believers
I swin right under the surface
My heart burns with molten lead
In my skin crawls a monster with a double head
My broken wings only allow me to fall
I scream and I shout, but you can’t hear my call
And the desert of God’s words torment me
I turn to the Devil so I can be free
But, as Father, as son, and I’m still bound
only in my swollen pride can freedom be found
And through the gates and hells I walked
I was murdered and ressurected
I had no culture and no destiny
So I dreamed
My own little world
My own little fight
And that was all I had
And all I was
A dreamer in a dream-dead world
your reality was obscene to me
I denied myself the right to be free
So I can be the man
All of you wanted me to be
I hope you’re happy
The son of the earth is dead.

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