Oh Marianne, Pass Me The Joint

Hebbo, and Hello everyone. Today is 4/20, and although I won't be partaking in the pepper-yippy giddiness that happens on 4/20 this year, I know that some of you reading my blog might. So I'd like to share with you my favorite song from the new MGMT album. It's called 'Siberian Breaks'. The best way I can describe it as, a college-sounding experimental acid trip, GONE HORRIBLY RIGHT! It's lyrically blessed by his holiness, The Pope, himself, and most definitely deserves your attention. It runs a little over twelve minutes. So close your eyes, do whatever it is that you do, and immerse yourself in a world of mass euphoria. Now go deep-fry your brain in some caramel, and tell me how it goes :)

'Siberian Breaks' - MGMT

Sleep as the goer
the bridge that watches the light speed through
and cries while the spirit stumbles
the inside missile for the protection of you

maybe it's silent
the voice can't bear anymore, strain
but speak without even knowing
and streams outside, in the direction of truth

There's no reason, there's no secrets to decode
if you can't save it, leave it dying on the road.
Wide open arms can feel so cold,
so cold,
feel so cold.

Balance the books, the ledges, the loons,
the disappointed look on the faces
that squint at the moon.
Let's see it with shadows enhanced,
and then vote to decide who'll advance.
Silver jet plane, making a turn
exciting the brain that expects it to crash and then burn.
It's not the life lesson I'd've guessed,
if you're conscious you must be depressed,
or at least cynical...
but someone might still eat the steaks,
even if they're tough.
Spending the day,
chewing the fat.
Floating away isn't rough but it's not enough.
Oh Marianne, pass me the joint
The sandpaper's tan
go-getters are surfing the point,
and London's a scratch on the lens.
It's over before it begins.
Silk 'round her neck falls down to her shoulders,
the older I get, the more I suspect there's a trick,
but really there's no trip at all,
that doesn't result in a fall,
or a faltering...
but something could spit out the bait,
even if it's real.
Rolling away,
missing a spoke,
close to the ground like a wheel, but it's not a joke.
Holding the line,
clutching the phone,
nobly wasting the night, but it isn't right,
it's not right.
Smelling for blood,
praying for rain,
running away isn't rough, but it's not enough

The low tide is telling me, when it's over,
to breathe in everything exposed,
and comes back to cover me with a blanket.
Being here's always changing tunes

[ooh ooh]

[falling...]

The empty sky surrounds me, but I can't see at all...
Wide open arms can feel so cold...
and you can sit beside me, and tell me what it's worth...
but I hope I die before I get sold...
I hope I die before I get sold...
I'd rather die before I get sold...

If you find the soul that you lost,
frozen in a starry void,
take it within, and hope the sight of blood
can will signs of life to return...
back to the way that it was,
long before it made a noise,
to keep on quietly reminding you
what's never created or destroyed.

Wake as the swell peaks
the close-outs drowning the birds with roars
and howls scare the new unkindness
that picks and laughs at the carrion scene.

Forces you see breath can always go into hiding
and wait 'til it passes over
or stay far gone for all eternity...



ROBOT UNICORN ATTACK!!!

Have fun :)