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I've got nothing on you you've got everything on me I wouldn't dare to broach the subject on a tuesday it would break her little heart you're an artist I know but it's no excuse I don't believe it I don't believe you don't see if you hook it up to the speakers it's still got the same unbearable sound if you undress it to the bones it's awful shape still stays the same you don't stay up worrying what happens when the only music you like is the sound of glass breaking
Red Teeth and a white tongue losing my mind red teeth and a white tongue fighting or flying when my brain flushes I fill it with wine red teeth and a white tongue sound bytes and videos remember what I don't the storage that I chose a force I can truly own owning finally by force not solved by my divorce that salt it finally shows in sweat in the videos me at my edge of me muscles make ketamine yeah that's my voice, but that's not me talking
When you were growing up wasn't it like your mom rummaging through your drawers wearing a ballgown and a burger king hat -- finding your journals and going through them with a red pen rewriting the parts she didn't like and just crossing the parts out she felt she could simply not salvage. It's weird that there are chairs there. Are you afraid that I'll forget the word for snow? Because maybe you need to let go of that one in the name of the italian seascapes and sky. You have to trust that on a cold day, sitting next to someone smoking a pipe -- I'll hear a windchime or a strange birdsound or the creak of wood and I'll remember how few the words once were. The word can change, but the snow stays the same. (How are you going to find it?)
Facing from the back door, waving through a mirror again. I follow the road in forward retreat. I'm chasing to a liquor store or racing with the whore in me. I feel my lust in driving at 70. I cross into the clergy's thrust, a rape aimed for putrid fruit. The evil bursting flesh of weak will in deed. I keep the peace in semen from the rage inside his robe - the bruising of a wheel, sweet hurt black breath. I miss my lady. I fist my partner. I fist my God. + + + Lie to anyone if it feels good. Feed the christians to the lions like their meat isn't rotten. Lie to yourself if it feels good. Lick your fingers for the thin wood. Skull fuck (love) Jesus in your childhood. Make him love you like he made you. The turning pages of a child. The inky strands you thought were truthful. The tickle in your gut when you're fighting. Now that John's dead I'd like some heroin, to know what it feels like to drive away at full speed.
Samples: "Straight Edge" by Minor Threat "Tom's Diner" by Suzanne Vega "First Class" by Kottonmouth Kings
I watched John Leif smoke BT for his first time in the dark parking lot at Nico's Taco Shop. Tin foil and puking, and lungs like two tarped apartments- emptied and immature. Fumigated and sticky pink gum under his sneakers. Much like his "25," cocooned in his shiny wood coffin. Wearing clean clothes, the same nothing in his eyes. But, exhaust and no light. Exhaust. The lot lamps turned down and Nico's opened a brand new bigger location with the same oily food. The first shop never closed where I watched John Leif one time slurp up smoke as a child, and one time tell a junkie, “No I'm clean now,” also as a child.
Croak on tree, from turned tools aimed upwards pointing to the bugs in mid soar, to striking downwards like shoot, lightning, bark, leather. Digging up earth into piles of whatever. Live away from the heaps! You'll have plenty of time together after soon. Until then, turn them into fire, light, charcoal, paper, life. Burn the tree, so when they see my cave paintings living will have been captured by symbol but not medium. Yet, when the dirt is in my brain, and my memories, and my sister kissing the air next to my cheek, and my life is my muddy grip, I'll be nothing but nothing. When they see my cave paintings, I'l hide my ox-blood fingers behind my back. "I know it doesn't look like a buffalo but doesn't it feel like one?" "Yes, but the soil beneath your nails, the color of your hands like they slapped bark. I forget." Doesn't it smell like the smolder of wood in our chest was designed to hurt? Our minds are running through the upward vine, clipped like jack-shit at the final climb. Sailing downwards, then decomposing, then nothing but nothing. When they see my remains, I'll have been a primate. When they feel my remains, I'll have been a buffalo already dead in the dirt. But, when they see my cave paintings, I'll be a tree bursting from that dirt, and a cave, and a painting, and a nothing but nothing. Burning people burning branches, charred to the stump. I hope. Get the teen out of my body.


Released by Related Records in 2015

Basement's side is Sean Real, Penina Eilberg-Schwartz, Dannie Murrie, & Sofia Bell

Human Behavior:
Andres Parada, Becky Pattowitz, Chris Pierce, Emily Howard, Ron Stanage, Mark McClanahan, Nate Marks.


released April 30, 2015

Basement side recorded at Pink House Records except for Track 1 recorded at Secret Bathroom Studio & Pink House Records.

Engineered by
Sean Real
Penina Eilberg-Schwartz
Andy Oswald

Produced by Sean Real

Mastered by Ashley Clayton

Cover Art by Eva Restad

Human Behavior's side

Recorded at Andres Parada's home in Tucson, Morgan Anderson's home in Baton Rouge, and Nate Marks' home in Bethlehem.

“Cave Troll Dance Dirge In A Minor” is an improvization led by Nate Marks. All other songwriting by Human Behavior.



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Basement San Francisco, California

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