Your religion should be your imagination. That is all the existing ones anyway.
lyrics
This is the story of my asshole,
Whose breath bruised feet
In a valley of stars.
It was another blow against my bed plaster
And then, like my hand, probably painful.
It were a mark of shame.
Was the restful scene the restful scene on the stems?
Was there fabric?
I no longer know.
Refrigerated food power,
A virtue for oysters and silk,
Little anemone cakes,
Vegetables cook the adults.
Jeanne-Pierre had talked,
I had begun to bleed.
I knew cul de sac heads.
Swinging from a branch badly,
I saw the direction in which man inflicts the nightmare.
Remember the announcement about the cloud!
In paradise, Jesus was devastating.
God, his sandals, his beard,
Travels in a world of people pursued;
Fists clenched,
Like slaves to udders,
Milky millions with hips swaying in heavy make-up,
Desire slipping into each other,
Strutting out their miseries,
Without the money to catch a cold
I don’t like to wall when I foot,
I’ll plunge it into Henrietta,
To the other end of my mother,
To the castle words demolished!
There’s no mental patients in my head-hospital.
This Nashville trio make ultra-catchy indie rock (in the '90s sense of the term) with taut musicianship and a freewheeling spirit. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 2, 2021
The latest from Wren Kitz, on the always-great NNA Tapes, is a study in minimalism, with barely-there guitars and hushed vocals. Bandcamp New & Notable May 4, 2017