Amoeba & Andromeda

by Tatlock

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02:58
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03:14
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credits

released July 15, 2016

Music on tracks 1,7 and 10 by Ben Mayock.
Music on track 4 by Aidan Powell.
All other music by John Tatlock.
All words by John Tatlock.

Produced by Ben Mayock.

Artwork by Ghostshrimp.

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Tatlock New York, New York

Combinations of sounds to invade your ears and alter your mind (hopefully.)

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Track Name: Infinity x i³
I have come to the conclusion that any preconceived notions of size are irrelevant. How could my inclusion to this earthly confusion possibly be so small when that’s what we label sediment. Still, I’m bigger than my bones, my nerves, my cells, micro-organisms and dirt, but I guess I just say that to feel like I have worth.

In my universe I see to the boundaries. In my universe I see: Gray skies, omnipresent lies, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine long as it rhymes. The kite might dive but not fall like the amoeba might sight the night but not feel small. It’s all string, it’s string, it’s all string. It’s all string being knotted in taught rings. It’s all string, I’m saying I’m all things, but I’m nothing and content with that. Today, I feel like an amoeba moving across a piece of sand to reach the other side and admire the view. Go home, empty the fridge, stress about it’s emotions and question it’s relevance by the ocean. Today I feel just like a hydrogen atom that wonders why? what? when? where? Depressed cries, cross-stitched with lies. But he still enjoys the carbon sky just as much as the next guy.
Track Name: Mezzanine of Amoeba
I spent a whole day sitting alone in a swirling cesspool of the unknown. I go into this earth with intentions of un-intention. Disinterested or disconnected. Yellow glow, red and green to mezzanine and dreaded median it seems. In-between the lesser grounded thieves of air and enlightened beings. Material freed from metaphysical streams of pleas and refreshed seeds or one-up keys. Fake promises of top or bottomless in a solvent of wind and fire and earth and air and breathe... Oxygen or oxycotin, dilute yourself in freedom or in unison indeed. A nihilists ideal is black and white to shelter emotions of which one must feel. We’re all cliche it’s just what matters is recognition in dusty screenplays, or modern innovative intricate mediums erasing sucker-punch complacency. This is where the laugh track plays and the crowd goes wild for an existentialist’s last day. Last daze, the brick wall approaches and bashes the barrier burial ground. Stay. Awake, not fake, but safe, in knowledge. The freedom’s a burden just don’t acknowledge anything. You’re my little everything, essentially synced existence. It’s echoing.

Amoeba hit mitosis, Midas hit psychosis, might have slipped my focus how the lighter essence closes off. Don’t swap the thoughts, not amoeba, not not, not bots, don’t stop.

Foundries and foundries and fountains of bad dreams.

I spent a whole day sitting alone, writing useless poems, chiseling statues from stone. You look like glass to be thrown in a classroom full of droning cacophony and the ringing of telephones. Hella glow, hello though. It’s the voices of 16th century composers all calling in just for closure. No sir, I don’t want a bribe or any modesty, honestly, I’m better off with monotony. Mahogany bounce off of he who speaks forth without common pleas or forced report. Report to contort. Resort or abort. Sort.
Track Name: Knotted//Needless
Drop through pavement and tell me if paper’s relevant. Flaking mistaken relevance pacing under the television. Under some staticy leaves, unbalanced compounds. Electricity down with your status in potholes. Pop cold thoughts with needles of stainless battery acid in faceless casualties, matter of grayish to pink mortality. See, there’s more to life than coincidental change and flattery. Emphatically battle me, verbal wit, stealth in agile dreams. Sufficient wealth to me’s back to a dirt floor with open astronomy. Photogenic genetics, if the soul does not exist, is applicable. Inexplicable mist shrouds me from you and your empty ordinance. You’re insubordinate, uninteresting disorganized organism, it’s fine. Oracle morphing out the orbiting foes to tip toe to safety while letting the weeds grow.

Yo, drop the stale bones, let the lauded foes know the ice hasn’t been froze. The dice haven’t been thrown, so entice the broken tone to drop the monolithic stone and assemb
Track Name: Shiver
I saw the stars shiver, saw the air grow dimmer, for a split second switching direction from looking inward. The atmosphere thickens, we’re sifting up through the stitches. We’re tipping upon a needle that’s sticking up through our differences. Indecision in vision with some poorly preformed incisions, inefficient human race of vitamin and chemical deficiencies. Population proliferation pairing with sedation of lively nations. Silencing race and rations and facing fascists in action. Apathy’s not the answer and anarchy’s just not happening. So lets backtrack, and find nirvana in a ball of clay, and say it just ain’t the same, the way the game is played. Still gotta face the day despite being a millionth of a dust speck under the cosmic carpet. Swept away with the rain until another day when I’ll resurface and say:

I heard that every time a star flickers it’s the planets based around it revolving.
I heard that every time we think we see it it’s 200 years ago from our ground.
I heard that every time a star flickers it’s the planets based around it revolving.
I heard that every time we think we matter there’s another galaxy being found,

And still we’re revolving, dissolving in molten metallic cauldrons. Evolving and falling in masses of static parliament. Allegorical words paint a picture on the page with politicians on the stage telling you, things just ain’t the same. It’s really not meant to be this way with heads in day to day rather than distant space, of the unknown I’m afraid. You’re afraid too, you just don’t know it yet. You’re lost in space too, but also lost in your head. I’m lost in page 32 of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek trying to understand what she said. Can’t comprehend, I think I lost a friend. I think I lost that discussion on who to defend. I think I fought for the wrong people’s intellectual freedom on CNN. I think I thought too much, I think I lost my head. I think I lost my head, but I thought you said.
Track Name: Plastic Makes Perfect
Practice doesn't really make perfect and plastic doesn't really make purpose.

Birthed out of craters and a metronome, a blank faced pedagogue of pedology led wrong. To believe that the earth exists in chemicals and elemental epitaphs forever go. Aborted out of nature bonds and spirit-wholes, a hole of indistinction wrapped in hedged rows. We believe that the earth is picket-white and centerfold. Therefore our most scrawled on scroll forever goes:

Preservatives for nature parks and now under hated patriarchs, are animalistic made to par from chefs of bore with nature stark. Our animalistic counterparts are hatred fueled and placed in part for the corporate subsidies, flame and char, in disregard, we must impart/embark.
Track Name: And Perfection Is Worthless
To the boundaries we go. I see glow & indigo, air flow in no gravity, woah.

I spent zero to name the stars and thousands on these highways. Bars to block a smiling constellation afar. Tar up, synesthetic barrier for the scarred up ozone carrier. It’s a locked cuff on the blood-brain staircase or elevator. This is labor.

Sentiment/sediment, selling clothes to claim the relevance. It’s sediment sentiment’s giving common folk the prevalence. Amoeba to hit andromeda, indomitable reverse. Mind crossing, the tossing out of the earth. Solitary refinement, with space and time went I, and this, and you, and this. It’s string, it’s string, it’s all string.
Track Name: Matterless
Deconstruct your anatomical structure.
Must your fragility be so flaunted as such?
More to be thought of than can.
Too much freedom both makes and diminishes a man.

So what does that leave me? Blood, bone, dirt, nerves, caffeine. If only I were to be blessed with anonymity. If only I were to be stressed on past the boundaries. If only I were to be stretched and molded then omitted gravity, maybe I could see. Then and only then would I acknowledge that beyond me fully, graciously building for bridge amends. Seeking a Titebond II to my zen, I call this trick “empty cleanse.” Ion orbiting the origin of conformity, the bends. The bends depends on atmospheric empathy or lack of this resulting in a fracture of the sensory development and consciousness towards inexplicable existences. Your shifty feet are prominent, tectonics shifting on your common sense.

I saw the earth flicker, saw the atmosphere wither,
Sought the contentedness, committed to facing inward.
The atmosphere thins, and I’m absolving of my sins
While simultaneously splintering to fractals from within.

Fibonacci couldn’t factor this, ethereal light shivers and masks my mass, matterless. Slightly flattered, I guess. Subjective is emotion, matterless. This is the quotient of the surface of the earth and just above to emulsive star droplets on a cosmic canvas. Sol is one, soul is won.

My weight is all and none, my wait is all but done.
Track Name: Sodded//Seedless
I’m an inundated integrated imitating synchronized conundrum in the room, boom. Cosmic cosmetology, face drops words to the rhythm of the breeze. Freeze, and don’t say anything, break that energy from refrained telekinesis. I got a little thesis from the back of the room, right to the prefix. Suffer, buffer, dial up clutter to importance of the shutter. Click, bricks will out the fallen, foreshadow gold to char, back to the pollen. Buzz right up to the thermosphere, persevere, and clean out the stratosphere. Persuade paid to fade to the rhythm of the self-made spade penetrating grey frames. Grain film, clay coat the kiln, scapegoat the ill, scrape off the sill. Shake change to kill, hate-haze to chill, or nose-bloody with guilt while sifting through the silt. They gave us fake promises of laborious fruit earnings, notorious food sorting. I’m warning, with a laugh in the face, and a slap to the taste, and a snap of the traits. Modify those crates to ship-shop and place, ingest, hate, create, appreciate in haste. Ingratiate to corporate hate, incorporate to wait on quality not equate. Not adequate, we are not satisfied and we are not having it. We’re a candle lit cave-drawing catalytic change. To catastrophically plague your factory made pay. Assembly crash line. Attentively tight twine.Incentive’s tough to find, so I left spacial realms in search of the undefined.

Amoebic Andromeda dichotomy, break walls of stardust psychology. Dissolve anatomy, biology, astronomy, astrology, an unknown soluble beyond perceptibility. Highlight the syzygy, amoeba to andromeda gridlocked cryptically. No longer mystery if you just take one step out reality’s preconceived boundaries.

Sod to seed the knot breaks to need. Not knead the sawed wood is seed. I need not the seed that I sought I seed conceived thought and need rope for knots.
Track Name: Penthouse Andromeda
I am on penthouse earth, top of the now bottomless. Subtly shown mirth, I’ll sign it out to ecologists. Economists, pathological liars bathed in self-confidence. Ignore that, we’re focusing on consciousness.

No cookie cutter complacency, I was made to be a little off the tip of the razor’s edge. May we unanimously face our necks and nerves to the breeze, and declare our uninformed nature solemnly. I want to be, more than dust in the cosmic carpet. I want to register stars mentally on top of occipitally. See, I spent a whole day pretending I wasn’t scared of what I don’t know. Prisms dissect color and color dissects globes. Woah. The galaxies are too far apart to see if anybody really cares about me or these thoughts that I’m desperately trying to dilute with chamomile tea. I spoke once about growing edible leaves in concrete, that’s before I discerned my so-called reality from possibility. What’s out there, do I really see to the boundaries? Is my floundering some sort of symbology? What I will see when I cross into this other side that so many claim to see, what is belief? What is and is not a mental construct, is questioning that a mental construct within itself? Is asking for help weakness or a sign of mental health? Regardless, I’ve probably written about a million love letters to the stars when I truly have no knowledge of what they individually are. All together I see something I feel more connected to than the average carbon based life form. The light is warm millions of miles away still, and I feel... Just kidding.

Andromeda meets amoeba, introductions are see through. I see through and through the universe, and you? Speak first. Jellyfishing, translucent, vicarious uselessness. Part of something greater, blame it on the cluelessness.

Mental foundries have found me, and bound me to earth, air and sea. One can dream, only once content with fruition being an impossibility. So, I’ll spend a whole day on top of the globe, spend the night in celestial snow. Breathe in with white light, and out with darkness, euphoria, to the boundaries I go.

Boundaries and boundaries surrounding the foundries,I found me a niche in which I’ll wait out the bad dreams. I am on penthouse andromeda.
Track Name: Infinity x π
Be my punctuation. Allow me the right to exist with minimalistic fist fronts. List love as an outlier amongst emotions. I am the ocean center with not so much as a subtle underwater current. I’m going to stepping-stone my way across.

Be my punctuation. Allow me the right to exist with minimalistic fist fronts. I’m the ocean center, I embody the inner core to the exosphere on to every star, planet, intergalactic piece of flotsam that appears. Eyes are the vessel to heart, mind, nervous, skeletal, and beyond to outer matter, binary imperceptible.

In this universe, now I’ve come to terms with the boundaries. Mitosis of the cells occurs quintessentially as duality between the foundries, and the fountain, bridge the gap, all being accounted. Need ties in with a seed to be germinated by the inbetween, that’s “we.” Look up, you’ll see, the ambience in which you breathe, decreed. We are the seed in hand with amoeba, intrinsically, in sync with being.

Plastic never made perfect, but the practice in having was worth it. Perfection was never intention of this, and the lack of is rather rewarding.

We are past the globe in indigo, with lack of scale, numerical code. Pure all and no. Look down, tell of what you see, not left behind but put to the beat of different line. It’s all string, but you’ve got a plastic cup and so does everything. Expand the gap for clarity then breathe, speak and see. Osmosis of you and me, amoeba, andromeda, wind and sea. Let it pool, this is true recollection, be free.