funky punky chunky skunky
by Patrick Quinn, guitars by Mike Stibor
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Days limp along flaccid, so pacified placid, carrion, i am, all i can do - but what can you do when you're on the ground floor of what's to come?
to console caring parents i say "someday it'll make sense, looking back, peering through" - but i'd rather not listen to twisted bitter wisdoms from prunes who wish they were plums...
wishy-washy wishes on washed up beaches, flying fish flung to sky's far reaches, only to plunge back to ocean's leeches, cold comfort oblivion ---??!!!--
well...
excuse me if i'm wrapped up in my fantasy - i wanna see! i wanna be! anomaly! free me from this servitude to misery! Mister Mystery let me in!!!
in this chaotic chasm i'm lighting a lantern - Jeckyl there's nowhere to Hyde. "Reality" i can now see is no more than cold, dark doors to bar us from what's outside.
the tip of this cliff is my jumping off point; i'm blowing this joint - in your face! i'm meeting a friend on the other side of the end so bury me, put me in my place...
maybe the ones said dead aren't late, just slipped past the guards before the gate, or we're merely early for our date, slated fate for the great beyond? ho!
forgive me if i'm locked in living fantasy; vivid to touch, lucid to taste, luminous face-to-face with transcendental exxxstasy; starving thirsty with bursting love!!!
(mr. mystery let me in..)
goodbye. i'm eloping with my phantasy. hoping for hope, groping for truth, probing the deep to sneak a peek behind the mystery. still starving thirsty for the key...
when night intrudes like a blackblue fruit then withers wasted like a parched prune and reaching for doorknobs you grasp the moon don't give up your grip too soon...
Mister Mystery, you don't know me but don't swallow that key that you're holding,
its so precious to me, you come in riding a nightmare on the back of a bruised sky
i'd swim the depths of your darkness to transcend this cruel lie...
{Anomalia is an amorphous entity; a force unconfined by human form or the forces of conformity. A unique frequency free from the dystopic distortions that gradually ground sounds in the muddy miasma of noisy poisoned pools. The pinnacle of a personality's potential.}
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