Deity Dead
original songcraft by C.Michael Keaton
excerpt; ‘a murky sampling of earth as law
but we know we are more free
than that when we are emptied
into a world so raw, we come…’
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Living in a Vacuum
original songcraft by C.Michael Keaton
excerpt; ‘…willed insanity through the blood on our hands
sanity’s one last stab, grabbing on to lock mind in
just for the fix, stabbing arm shaking bones…’
Blood Muscle
original songcraft by C.Michael Keaton
excerpt; ‘I want to rip you from the inside
spread your ugly lips so wide
take the time to do it just right
so tender and nice and tight…’
a torment of frequencies.
You might think it is safe to be hard like a rock, but your ego betrays a lack of confidence in the self-esteem that is required to move about so freely. You can look into another face, and sense the animal alertness embedded in this flesh. You can read the signs of progress like a scout with a compass, but your initial thrust forward is hampered by an existence fettered by the material needs that substitute necessity. You can see yourself giving, but all you can do is take it as the world dishes it out to meet its tempers of equal pressure. The urge becomes too much for the being to endure, and as the light fades from the eyes, an embittered perspective takes the place of a mind open to any frequency that reaches the senses there. …
session zero-one; punishment of pressure
5:39 pm…the acoustic guitar is being replaced from my hands into the next good citizen, and so that means that while I do have it in my possession, I must write the tracks to push my skills into new vistas of imagination and understanding the world around me…last night began the compiling and writing process for spare tracks, recorded seven total, and realized decent combinations of each of them in turn…used a slide for the two tracks, and happened to distort the last two tracks even though only one is marked as ‘distort’…no plans to write tonight, but I do have the opportunity to change my mind on that one particular detail, I need to use my time wisely…10:12 pm…guitar (acoustic) returned safely to rightful owner…a few tracks recorded, and now I need to go through them to weed …
session zero; this simple song.
…1:09 am…getting drunk and high, but gear (bass-playing items) are ready to go…
watching revolutionary film, and waiting to switch over to recording…writing some shoddy lyrics presently, but might re-edit later when there is time to work…now is an anticipation for the playback…1:53 am…no sound except through recording…writing to musician friend online…short statements back and forth…explaining the the unplanned discombobulation right now. with the bass unheard, and that makes midnight session weird…2:20 am…nothing to speak of as progress, what a feeling of ironic joy, and for such a petty reason…3:00 am…gone…2:40 pm…the return…not going to let my simple song dwindle, that would just swindle my need, and ‘we’ can’t afford that…ideas for a bassline are flitting about my conscious mind…surface thoughts analyzing for the sake of nothing, the approach and the purpose…four/four time with slight change-ups at the two and …
with regard toward nothing.
my fate is locked in tightly with yours, but the avenues for release from the present state are terribly limited. the understanding defies the reason, and the reasons defy the proper logic out of the chaos. ordered thoughts might seem the perilous undertaking. ‘Nixon Void’ beckons from the dark dead subconscious of archetypes unborn. a string of letters and symbols that conceptualize into empty anti-growth. a nihilist is breathed into life, and yet, wants that breath taken back to wherever it came from. spite and despair bring this “thing” to us, and we all have to face our demons down the barrel of a gun, an image that denotes our futile narrowed vision. we are lead around by the bells, ringing to create unendurable confusion, and we meet the intense things that be. overtaken by the bullets of implied …
mad infestation…
the breakdown was mutual… the manacles set upon the wrists… the diseased mind permeates the foul and sanctified heat of resistance… the stink of awareness from the outside world revealing the madness within this maelstrom… the dripping and gooey internal structure fairly teeters with the substance falling from the ceiling… you raise your eyes to notice that stalagmites extend downward toward you, and this pit seems far too small… to express your way out of a paper bag is nothing so intense as performing your way out of a jagged hole inside your heart… this is where things have been taking place of late… the mind becomes far too tight and constraining upon itself to be of any real use… the music is alive, though, and there are few who would wish to see it… this other necessary entity …
few things…
please me more than a sense of rhythm, a thing that lends itself over to anything, and still makes depth appear where none might have been visible before… the shallow now does not seem hollow, and rational senses give way to following the music… whether classical or rock-inspired, the muse is never far from the thoughts of all who really appreciate the gift that music can bring… this thing that moves the soul to and beyond the gathered status quotations… a haunting melody is not always the necessary key to the forgiving weight of instant gratification… sometimes it is the momentum of a repetitive rhythm that lends to freedom of mind the most… that freedom of movement we all require in order not to feel as though our actions are controlled by others who don’t even know us… if …