TMF@ The Attic 8-13-11

Here’s a new old ditty we lovingly call “Stuff.” I thought about adding a bouncing ball with lyrics (cause they’re a bit buried), but decided a practice jam doesn’t merit that much attention. So, pay attention.

http://www.facebook.com/thefork

Also, while you’re surfing the web, why not visit our youtube channel?

I keep saying…

I won’t hate you to forget you. Not this time.
I won’t paint that picture of you. Not this time.
But what of me? Do I see? In all of the chemistry making all flesh colored
Paintings of fleeting love which is taking me across yet another.
What of me? Do I see? In all of the chemistry making all flesh colored
Paintings of fleeting love which is taking me across yet another.

Sad
portrait of me.

If we could step outside ourselves and then look past our own lens.
If we could forget about the past then we’d know where to begin.
It’s easier to me, sure
It’s easier to be sure
It’s easier to leave your
Portrait in the tube.

My History’s repeating the
Intensity so fleeting
But this time I see the
Reflection you leave is

A sad
Portrait of me.

The white of the
Fingernail I bite
Was just born when
Our love was alive
And healthy to know then.

The red of the
Bloodshot eye that cried
Was just mourning
The death of a touch
On a November morning.

I can’t stop painting
this portrait of me
And with every drop I paint
soon you will be

A sad portrait of me.

The white of the
Fingernail I bite
Was just born when
Our love was alive
And healthy to know then.

The red of the
Bloodshot eye that cried
Was just mourning
The death of a touch
On a November morning.

I can’t stop painting
this portrait of me
Hand me my paint brush
It’s time to mix

Red and Blue are
Blending into white
No matter what you see
I choose the brush and that is why I
Paint the picture I can only see.

Hello there hardcore kid.
Hating the man despite what you is. Woh oh.
I don’t blame you for your hate.
It’s your nature and your way to decreate. Oh oh.

So go ahead and hate me if you want.
Cause I’m definitely not punk rock enough.
To match your strict level of politically-raged drivel
I’d hafta wear a tattoo of an anti-bush medal.

And eat only veggies and hate the top 40
And live for conspiracy and worship Michael Moore. You
Angsty angsty hate fucker, lil ole grumpy smurf who’s
Looking down at me and always wearing your trendy anti shirt.

Paint. By. Num. bers.
It’s easy to be stupid.

Never mind the man behind the curtain.
Ask not of the source or you’ll be hurtin’

Please hold my hand. Don’t think yourself.
Don’t worry child, I control your light.

Hello there religious nut—
hating so many people in the name of the good book.
Intolerance of range is a must.
No room for variety in your black and white reality.

A missionary mouthing off a visionary mission to
kill anything different from the missionary position.
It’s Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve, right?
So fuck the freaks leading their fucking different freaky lives.

Paint. By. Num. bers.
It’s easy to be stupid.

It’s never gonna be good enough… is it?
It never got to be what it should’ve, did it?

I stimulate the body but I never get a
perfect product to satisfy this tick.
I concentrate and try to see through cloudy eyes
But lucid targets never fall from the sky..

It’s never gonna be good enough… is it?
It’ll never get to be what it should, will it?

Why did my parents lie to me?
Did they think I’d be a star?
Mom and Dad forgive me.
This pen only goes so far.

What’s the point (why try?) It’s been done before.
Another god trying to recreate the world.
Mix in some trip-hop electro-mud-trance-pop
Dipped in metal and served up ultra hot.

It’s never gonna be good enough… is it?
It’ll never get to be what it should, will it?

Why did my parents lie to me?
Did they think I’d be a star?
Mom and Dad forgive me.
This pen only goes so far.

The point here is to act. The goal here is to move my feet.
The question I got to ask: is which way is that one way street to the
Moon and its gravitational mass and its pull and the wolves and its 30 day loop.
I can feel its pull on the iron in my blood like radio controlled puppet strings.

I’m staring, staring … in the face of change and I don’t know what it is.

And so it happens again my friend. The tides are shifting and eating the sand.
It’s 99.99 percent on the money, measured to inch by man and his plan.
With Doppler radar and dolphin play pins, and nanotechnology and chemical microchips.
And cherry flavored Prozac, and internet love-ins, and robots with artificial intelligence.

What I’m thinking about is the future
What I’m worried about is the past.
What I’m thinking about is the fact that
We’re just walking and talking water balloons.

I’m staring, staring …. In the face of change and I don’t know what it is.