Outro – Clipping

This song makes me feel like I’m bleeding. Lured into a state of pure anxiety by the facade of a silly song that just repeats the words “get money” over and over again. Every time I listen to the outro on the album Midcity by Clipping, I feel like I’m having a panic attack or a stroke. I’m sitting, listening to the words “get money” metamorphosize into some sort of alien-produced sound. I’m trying to find the words that I’ve lost somewhere along the ride of this monster of a song; this is like trying to untangle a slinky after you’ve sent it flying down your staircase. It’s impossible to get it back to what it once was. The twenty seconds of silence at the end expect you to reflect on the vicious glory of this song, but you’ve been sent flat on your back, looking up at your ceiling and trying to make stars out of the blobs of paint covering it.  

Untitled

I          want         some of    your         leisure time

        I want to            take    a         //break      with me

spend            some time           chasing    cars         and

sighing         into                   dusty lights       and

            watching           while

the            whole world         is           waking up and

      everyone       is                 happy

I’m Just Desperately Trying to Shove Every Snarling Memory Into This Empty Attic of Mine

Like the summer where me and Clarisse made the grossest food and made up songs while cooking and how I don’t see her anymore since her parents decided it was time to grow up and they kidnapped her into a flooded house and made her fall so in love with drowning that she decided she wanted to do it forever. And I’m not going to blame her parents for naming her after a horror movie protagonist but I can’t say I never thought it was part of the reason her eyes were filled with wasps and her touch made me shy away because I knew there was no way we’d both end up okay. And I listened to her loud-in-not-a-good-way music and pretended I liked it so hard. But I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want to pull out my hair at the fact that I only have one picture of her and that I had to grow up a moment too soon because she was the only one who’d be a child with me. And that I don’t want to implode into a symphony of static when I hear her name and remember how she melted into a pool of jelly and how she let it happen and how she liked it.