This Disease of Language

by Nayru

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06:16

credits

released March 9, 2015

Thank you to Andy for recording/mixing/mastering this EP.

Thank you to Siena for drawing the album artwork.

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Nayru San Diego, California

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Track Name: Through the Curling Flower Spaces
How you broke,
“You begin like a lion,
You end like a lamb”

This skin, we can spare
Because we’re animals


could see them,
Laying in the
garden of sin
furious noise

Denial is a form of escape, denial is the fifth act


We’re all animals


whispering them,
Faint Syllables,
Molded from breath
and violent
attempts to reminisce.
We’re the
ghosts in the church
We’re the fifth act
Track Name: False Paradise of William Blake
Turn my face up to the sun
Regenerate, refresh
We lose the uneasiness
in memories

we love the uneasiness
until it turns to shame

They lost their heads
to the eternal connection
of youth
and extrication


Ascension is carved,
Onto the clay that,
Bore those syllables,
Their lungs will decay,
The words will remain,
Genesis of a,
Life form that resists,
The thin blood in our,
Veins and it's never,
Ending circulation
Through our aging
Bodies, soft movement

Succession finds
It's roots in the
Soil that breed our
Names from withering
Seeds of despair
The concept of
Disillusionment
Will prevail


The tears, emitting
after the funeral
It’s true
We are ephemeral


Generations
All converge on
The ideal of
Preservation
This ideal will
Become the tar
In their lungs, the
Breath will remain

Unfinished verses,
Will remain,
A false paradise,
will remain
Track Name: Identifying Rupture
Creaks in the pavement
They aren't silent
Deterioration
Pays its dues


We are living
without sunlight
For sixty years
No shape
there is no shape

This revolution
Should curl the flowers
So we can all remember
their scent
and their names

Our eye color
doesn’t matter
unlike our skin
unlike our “sins”


Up for our display
The pupils vanish
inaccuracies
Get the last laugh and
textures disintegrate
Along with the ideas
of a dying
generation
Track Name: Supposing Truth Is a Woman
We are trespassers


The
satiric
essence of life,
Binds the reach of the doctor and the saint
parallel worlds provide the answers that,
were never there, Vocabulary frees
itself from reasoning, reasoning frees


“you look good today”
“you’re beautiful, just for me”
“Hey doll, I want acknowledgment”
a wink and a shout
Unsolicited


itself,
from comedy
We are
dancing
on the
stage of
indigence
and reaping the rewards of an insight


“Destroy
The world
Create it
Anew”
Track Name: Our Aging Bodies Have Carried This Disease of Language
bumping and banging
and tearing and dislodging
and pulling and burning
and starving and missing

The continuity will collapse


Remember
those
four letters?
Carved
into
the skin
of a
dead swan

That never learned
how to fly
It spread
its wings to glide on the materialistic prayers of our race


I’m overjoyed
I’m animated
I’m eager
I’m automated
I’m upset
And that’s okay
Because we all have a lot to be upset about these days


Thoughts that had intentions
Intentions are excuses
Weakness in what was spelled out,
tattooed in red across the ideals of our predecessors

an apparition of stanzas written in other's names


I will continue to shout
in the storm
the bustling world
together with
repleting dissension
full of skin
and ample breath

The headache is being lost
The stomachache is departure
The headache is habituation
The body ache is the fervor
Track Name: Rose Parade
Release from the heavy breathing
he didn’t feel a thing
except the years of pain
We all felt it too
but could never run in his shoes
and he ran
he ran as fast as he could
but he couldn’t escape his fate
and died in his sleep