Unpleasant Design
by Squalloscope
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Unpleasant Design
02:53
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Gunk
03:06
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about
Unpleasant Design was written and recorded in one night in my old room in the attic of my parents' house in Klagenfurt, Austria.
credits
released November 5, 2016
written, recorded, produced and mixed by Anna Kohlweis
written, recorded, produced and mixed by Anna Kohlweis
tags
license
all rights reserved
about
Squalloscope Vienna, Austria
Squalloscope is Anna Kohlweis, who exists as a multimedia artist, illustrator, songer and singwriter. She works as a
solitary force on writing, production, recording, artwork and videos and is dedicated to rhymes, multi-layered choirs, field recordings, loops, vaguely sloppy beats, the intensely personal and quite possibly the slightly wacky.
more releases available at seayou.bandcamp.com
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- Track Name: Unpleasant Design
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sea foam green is the car
driving in circles in the parking lot
maybe someone's learning how to go nowhere
I'm surprised they don't already know how
this town will never be mine
it gets great marks for unpleasant design
spikes on benches so you cannot nap
unless you're dead inside and you just don't give a fuck.
drunk teenage girls by the train station
on Tuesday afternoon for no apparent reason
I would join them, I too am just scraping by
but there's no way i can scream that high
my sibling's legs are long and tough
they can always take the shortcut
I never really studied the map
I just pretended none of it was there
life is small
who gave you
permission to expand beyond the bus station
fuck everything you might have heard
these words are slurred and absurd
I perfected the death stare
I learned it from grandmother downstairs
but every time i leave this place
I leave it right there.
Next to the tupperware
I turned on you in '06
I know secretly you're into it
if I make it somewhere else
the further away, the bigger the prize
life is small
who gave you
permission to expand beyond the bus station
fuck everything you might have heard
these words are slurred and absurd - Track Name: Gunk
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Our wallets are on fire in a trash bin of desires
„pay me!“ says my letter head
but I don't write to anyone these days
I hear whistling from the second floor
I sharpen knives behind the bedroom door
half my friends who watch the news
say they won't talk to men no more
and fireworks are such a waste
but words leave a rotten aftertaste
like dog whistles you might not have heard
the things that have been said
someone's been tickling the neighborhood
looking for questionable brotherhoods
the basements have been shaking
oozing glop and gunk and pus and goo
I use the elevator in emergencies
life's an accelerator for uncertainties
I need a bank account for surgeon's fees
because I'm an incubator for baby feet
breaking bread by the ocean's shore
throwing it in like it's cereal
eating it up with my tiny spork
while they come after me with flaming pitchforks
not sure what's up or down or what is what
been questioning things between hiccups
and when my favorite shows are buffering
I make a little time for suffering
I woke up once sweating pumpkin soup
I lost all comfort and all comfort food
I do my best to sound trivial
but we have done things that are unforgivable.
they're backpedaling on history
i see an upcoming whiplash injury
got shiny streamers on my bicycle
I'd like to think I'm still excitable
things are raging in the underground
you can see them on our annual ultrasounds
happy new year, unhappy dears
the old one can go die between trauma shears.
it was a wild ride and I'm still throwing up
someone says I'm just gonna have to live with that
heard those old men's jokes from our own fathers
you can have a greeting card playing canned laughter
someone stabbed someone with a pencil
sometimes the news seem strangely existential
they survived but they're still in ICU
got a novel written on their scar tissue:
"our wallets are on fire in a trash bin of desires
„pay me!“ says my letter head
but I don't write to anyone these days."
