1. |
Loop
02:58
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Spitting on the corpse of my former,
of my former self.
Doing away with the old,
but fertilising the soil,
for the next in line to flourish,
for the next seed to grow.
Need to pull the weeds from these cracks and stop them coming back.
I just repeat so it's easy to see
what I will do, have a geez.
I'll pollute this skin suit until it's twisted,
bringing it down to its knees.
But will it live by it?
No, it won't live by it.
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2. |
Wishy Washy
02:14
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Wishy washy boring tunes,
I think they are stalking me.
Go to work and they are there,
Hiding in the radio.
Lurking in the supermarket,
Cranking it in the booze isle,
Targeting the mindless market.
The market.
Brainless cookie cutter clones.
Invading my beat head holes.
Predictable, forgettable,
Ghost written with no chest organ.
Microwaved art cloned for the charts.
Their tunes sound like the smell of my farts.
They suck as hard as drunks on their darts.
Their Darts.
No ear safe to wonder the streets without the threat of an audio attack from the charts.
Shape shifting, shameless pop clones,
they are trying to occupy every frequency I hear.
Line the anti-reals pockets so that they can regurgitate songs that we've already heard,
so so many times before,
Criminally profitable bore.
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3. |
Surf the Streets
01:35
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When we were younger, we used to surf the streets.
Now we are older, and we still surf the streets.
I like the smell of blood, beer and sweat on my clothes.
Skatanical blood pumps through me from my toes and out my nose.
Thank god we're still about it,
and will be till we kark it.
Leaving blood patches on ramps and parks, occupation, annihilation.
DNA sticker left on the kicker.
Our eyes got wheels, our feet got grip.
The streets a playground so why stay house bound?
Leave the house frothing, come back sweating and soaking.
Crack a beer.
Thank god we're still about it,
and will be till we kark it.
When we were younger, we used to surf the streets.
Now we are older, we still surf the streets.
Skatanical blood pumps through me from my toes and out my nose.
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4. |
Note to Self
02:26
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I'm so done with these ever-repeating thoughts of self-degradation and character assassination,
Cos I'm just me, and I am who I was born to be, in this moment full of love, strength, kindness, and hope.
I have no need to judge, constantly question or doubt myself.
I have no more need for this interrogation.
I'll let myself just be.
Won't give the meaningless weight and let it overshadow who I've been since I was born.
You are not a walking culmination of ever negative thrash thought that you've ever had.
Let them go as quickly as they came.
Forgive yourself and please feel no shame.
Try sever the negative emotional response to all the destructive thoughts that clot in your skull.
You’re not just your thoughts, your who you've always been.
Don't fall victim to your paranoia.
And let yourself just be,
Don't give the meaningless weight,
and let it overshadow who ya been since you were born.
Who I've been since I was born.
Who we've been since we were born.
Who ya been since you were born.
Our cores the same since we were born.
So, write it down and rid yourself of the weight.
Sometimes you will get stuck.
Don't let it overshadow who ya been since you were born.
Who I've been since I was born.
Who we've been since we were born.
Who ya been since you were born.
Our cores the same since we were born.
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5. |
Numb Hands
03:36
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What you say, what you say ain't what you’re doing.
Write it down, filling pages with plans and lists to get my head in check, but they dry on pages never see sun.
Oh, good intentions are no reason to start to celebrate.
Cos actualising takes more time than I have been putting in.
What you say.
What you say ain't what you’re doing.
You just say.
You just say don't see much doing.
Drowning in the weekly grind can never be my excuse.
But I excuse myself from all lists that I'd planned to do.
I should take the time it takes to bleed what is inside out.
Cos I'm sitting on my, sitting on my hands, they are getting numb.
What you say.
What you say ain't what you’re doing.
Lack of action and direction leaves me in quicksand.
Drowning in the pages of lists that I had planned to do.
Oh, I have no problem admitting I am a problem to myself when it comes to living the life I ought to live.
I could babble on and on splattering about it.
But the list won't go, the list won't go anywhere anyway.
I should analyse actions instead of these pages.
But I'm winging it, fumbling my way to some truth, I hope.
What you say.
What you say ain't what you’re doing.
You just say.
You just say don't see much doing.
What you say ain’t.
What you say ain’t what you are doing.
And I just can't afford to procrastinate.
Cos I'm sitting on my, sitting on my hands, they are getting numb.
And I'm winging it, fumbling my way to some truth, I hope.
What you say.
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6. |
Dud
01:43
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I lie awake.
Preempting mental mistakes.
It makes me shiver and quake.
A head full of nothing but crud.
A life on buffer, a dud.
A life on buffer, a dud.
Like a tinnie filled with no bud.
I seek aerial means of escape.
I tighten and loosen the lid.
Shake up the bottle it starts to fizz.
I'm the hunter but I am the pray.
A life on buffer, a dud.
A life on buffer, a dud.
Like a tinnie filled with no bud.
This life a dud.
Head full of crud.
Buffering dud.
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7. |
Hamp'd
02:42
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No mercies been earned here.
Teeth ground back to gums in fear of not releasing grips on tools and unmuting gut bound truth, pissing in the face of privilege, this luck and people’s patience I’ve squandered.
From myself I've wandered.
I must carve and steer away.
From this path, I have to stray.
Act now or regret later on.
The choice is yours.
Complacency a dangerous game to play.
Pedaling as fast as your let in first gear.
Body yells for change, dust filled ears never hear, over the cracking of his joints and safety in rattling of coins, each one earned is a chance abandoned in squalor.
All dreams fed to the dollar.
I've let myself be sold.
Melted, poured into mould.
A howling gut screams the truth at me.
Act now or regret later on.
The choice is yours.
Complacency a dangerous game to play.
I must carve and steer away.
From this path, I have to stray.
A howling gut screams the truth at me.
Act now or regret it.
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8. |
No Better
03:38
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It's so apparent to me that your faking boy, so tell me who you’re trying to be?
Dressed up like a north beach catalogue and now you act as though you run the streets.
I've seen your kind in this place before, so I'd get comfortable if I was you.
You ain't going anywhere in any hurry, headless chickens, you and your crew.
Your stagnant.
Just like me.
I'm not any better.
But still, fuck you.
I can't tell if you’re a giant drunk toddler or driven senile early from the piss.
Reciting novels of your victories to the intoxicated that you catch, in your weak web you've spun from a desperate smile and a high obnoxious crawl and shout.
You ain't going anywhere in any hurry, headless chickens you and your crew.
Your stagnant.
Just like me.
I'm not any better.
But still, fuck you.
The suns guna rise up on this thirty-year weekend, then you can tell me all you've got to show for it? Nothing.
For it? Nothing.
Pickled organs, some empty extras following the scattered bread crumb trail of drugs and lies that you leave, for the nice or dumb enough to be caught in and fooled by your act.
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9. |
The Day
03:04
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Potential to be glanced at but not grasped.
To be left on the shelf.
Will he always be a victim of himself?
Chances missed and endless to do lists.
Weekly he tramples work until the weekend where he goes berserk.
Then sleeps it off and crawls back to the trough, with the rest of the gig pigs who huff cigs and empty bars kegs, we are the dregs.
The bottom, the unwanted.
Keep your head above the water.
Yeah, before you drown.
Drown yourself in your routine.
Gotta keep your feet touching the ground.
The cleansing and rebirth that this noise gifts, it uplifts like nothing else, it mends tiffs, it heals scars, it breeds love over blood. I was born to burn musical spliffs in these bars.
I was born
I was torn
I was up
I was down
I denied it
I supplied it
It brings me back to the source.
The noise cannot divorce.
Not ever, ever, ever.
And the day I can't do it will be the day I die.
And the day, I do die.
At least I can say that I got some.
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10. |
Knot
03:04
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I'm not who you think I am.
I can be spineless
I can be selfish.
Understand.
If I'd stayed in scouts maybe I'd have a better chance at untangling all these knots in this dump.
Wash these thoughts, hack them down to a stump.
Grow them down, down to their most insignificant state.
To reform all the trash from the mound into sound.
To release, to rewind, to escape to our most pure insignificant state.
I could happily drown in this noise.
The pursuit of this high eclipses all these negative, all these gnawing idiosyncrasies.
These vibrations are completely free from the nonsense that surrounds.
Grow them down, down to their most insignificant state.
To reform all the trash from the mound into sound.
To release, to rewind, to escape to our most pure insignificant state.
Our most pure insignificant state.
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Grown Downz Tauranga, New Zealand
Grown Downz are a two piece Punk & Roll band consisting of two sibling grubs Joel and Ellie. They are based in Mount
Maunganui, Tauranga, New Zealand. Formed in November 2017. Skate or Chai. Mount Mung Beanz.
Long Live T.M.S
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www.instagram.com/growndownz/
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/growndownz/?ref=bookmarks
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