Dust On Snow - Perfect Flop

Dust On Snow - Perfect Flop by brad hamers
Dust On Snow (Brad Hamers & Frietboer) - Perfect Flop
...song was originally released on a compilation by Chroniques Electroniques (out of France) called Beat Abstraction...GET IT FREE HERE: www.chroniqueselectroniques.net/article-compilation-chroniques-electroniques-beat-abstraction-75916776.html
....song will also appear on Dust On Snow's upcoming EP...dropping this summer!

here's the lyrics:

dinner was ruined over drug addiction and grudges
ancient ruins sunbathing in a century’s worth of camera flash
the dinner plate waits to be called a killer
the fork sits by sleeping in an (on duty) pig
the culture aint shit without its pen &pad, its badge and handcuffs
how does one unaffordable guitar become jimi
where does the jaw ajar crack open full of grape jelly
when does this hundredth whip and beating become a hit
(it’s either Katrina or the Dust bowl)
the way the swamp knows the clouds (and the clouds know the top of mountains)
everything about to rain was black and blue
blood in my kisses
cut knees on the bent end of my wishes
breakfast was spoiled over a turned up alarm that wouldn’t go back to snooze
i smack myself in the face and put my lips out for kissing
the round bell rang out sweat from last game
every contestant under a half-eaten donut spitting out rope and ice
god was ruined over by a bulldozer size camera light in its face
we all lived in the burnt down buildings that were left
i was in the library still caught afire with a dear friend
every mammoth in the room bleeding out imitation chocolate (in 2for1 wrappers)
every way to bring up the past had a hunter on its tusks
for every minute is ivory
every second a just passed saber tooth tiger (all yesterday’s are extinct)
dinner was ruined over keeping our mouths shut
couldn’t fit a pyramid in between these unspoken words
though we kept a desert between us
i can be your mirage at one end your endless gas tank your 3thousand foot drill
you can be the ripped up cactus the wheelbarrow of upturned weed
whatever you think i think of you
my weeds meant to be flowers
out-on-parole spirit pretending to swing his chains (above his head)
never meant to throw them at the fan or at you (i hope the world doesn’t become my pronouncement of it)
i hope you haven’t caught my heavy heart
only so many can float on this crashed space shuttle (in this little of lake)
before it sinks or bursts into flames
i hope you brought your empty pockets
(plenty to give if you don’t care about money)
i hope your star brought its planets and moons
this popped balloon never ends
only goes on repeating itself in the jumbled head of the cosmos over and over again
it’s laugh or cry sing or shut the fuck up
fast or get fat make a seat or sit in one someone else made
critical thinking sits out like spoiled chicken in its unregistered vehicle flipping through channels on the sun
…
tongues like fences white can’t remember where it first heard it ‘I just like the way the sheep jump over it’ the way it rolls off my numb mind, sterilized fork nothing to say
but what hits the laziest drum in the back of my ear
i say bring riots back
i say bring back confidence
(come back (with handfuls of face) laughing yourself to tears)
i say take back stimulation
fight off the security guards
stand outside your own magazine
fuck money and fuck money
putting your hand in it is like (talking your tie out of the fax machine) (or your way into a pair of gold handcuffs) (rock ‘em like a lonely mountain top) (just make sure you know you’re only worth the coal underneath you) (just know i meant everything as serious as a circus tent caught afire) (just know i lit it all up in flames for you)
we are what we are doing
we only are what we are doing
if i’m buying in it’s still got its censor tag (and aftershock of rent-a-cop)
if i’m selling out, i must be buried, deep as china
i don’t own my values
its running makeup precedes me

choked up on the sad dinner (banging my chest on the kitchen table)
dull stake knife in the Corinthian column
dust in between the spoons
dreams been sleeping too long
ad-savvy sheep mingling with the never ending pile of loose sweaters
clones fucking too many clones
if only the virus didn’t write itself
if only the earth wasn’t made of the space around it
if only gravity were something easy to explain
painting with my elbows on the table
a lion hit the window
we all leaned over
shoulder deep in civilization
asking for a hand to swat the flies
couldn’t get to work through everyone’s wings
you call it equal opportunity, i’ll call it air and light pollution
you call it Operation Would You Please, Operation Odyssey Dawn, i’ll buzz hitting the sides of my carved heart on the edge of the snare counting us all in

well i say fuck contemporary rich
i say write a new dictionary
define the reasoning gone into the definition of value
or myth i’ll die awake in a hat full of rabbits like loose change tails end up in an open guitar case each of us are these streets are the clogged veins ever-undergoing surgery pray for jello upon waking i say only get on one knee and ask to be engaged the elements are sluts no nerve-ending turns us down
(i say) jump from the closest built-up ruin and splash
perfect favorite number first into the muddy (displaced) current

the only seeing-mask you need is built in

Brad Hamers recently made an album cover for Freitboer

brad calls the collage "baptism by television"