1. |
hands
02:17
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if we’re talking the first step
just a mere formality
that little dance we do
i’m talking the method for circling the county
like the crows did
it's an open field where that scarecrow is
it's a mirror doubling as somewhere to put those film reels in
i feed the mustang with my palm flat
a bit more grass has it moving spectular
behind the barn a buick roadmaster on a few cinder blocks
if I had the choice we’d measure everything by hands
but like everything else i do not
that little dance we do
chasing how a word gathers descriptions
some guy i just met points to his palm when he says where he’s living
we got something for all this
i feed it a little gas and it finally starts kicking
i feed it a little gas and it finally starts kicking
they said, "build it so it stays standing when you’re not in it”
now my raft floating off in the distance
everything you own will go missing
laying down in the middle of the pitch
covered in Cheetos trying to feed a few pigeons
i got nothing against giving up
hands tied behind my back
the future you’s renting a cottage out the finger lakes
for a few hours to relax
all my stories begin lying in the grass
they all end at the same point with the driftwood coming back
under my four fingers is the map
all at once you awake
a field recording of a conversation you once had
while your childhood friend painted stars on your face
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2. |
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(cropscropscrops)
straight through to the pine sol, that tree lines the break
I take hedge clippers against the branch and carve out my face
at one point it was risky to play Pac-man all day
put another quarter in while my undershirts spin around in number 8
for later a plate full of fruit out of season
my keys in they gate
this teaspoon of sugar never hurt anybody
eventually its all in the chase
the scenery change,
an article in the New Yorker pay-walled
but I can see its 5 ways to break in the safe
boils down to being present
my ears in listening for a change
the tree crashes like some sort’ve ghost
but no one hears a thing
no one hears a thing
no one hears a thing
if i could hear anything
if i could hear anything
no one hears a thing
(static res)
quoting my grandfathers sayings
sound like philosopher-think
I Didn’t fall far from the tree
learning good things will blossom with age
i just take it as a moment to thank him
I carry mantras til I toss in the grave
from the valleys to the peaks
that’s atop to the terrain
a river running through it
Persistently Fed
From the droplets of rain
i viciously cycle
my heart full of faith
resourceful
made soup
from the docile remains
of leftovers
I forgot that I ate
Watching semi pro
Across my display
Won’t dig a hole
If the topography plain
I sunk my heels
In hiking shoes
Double knotted
For strength
When it’s a climb
i don’t get lost in the chase
Waving like a spruce in the wind
I found a Semblance
From the blotch on a page
My mental juggernauts constantly fade
Caught a boost, got yerba mate to thank
While the rest of it just locked in the safe
no one hears a thing
no one hears a thing
if i could hear anything
if i could hear anything
no one hears a thing
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3. |
blubird
01:28
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instrumental
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4. |
boulangerie POM
02:03
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|
at the end of the road sits the bend
an old desk made of the front door
i’ll question a blessing
like it was handed to me from the guest
how often i’m breaking down steps
you gave instructions for the pbj
and didn’t even note what kinda bread
wheat or 3 grain
there’s a bread store a short walk from my place
i go there when i cant catch a breath
i don’t got a type
besides a large fence, a fireplace
only thing in my pocket is the quarter rest
one more thing, at least some sort’ve driveway
my criteria is the message sent
i won’t double check
i can see the impact from my standing place i wait for the bus back to catch
picking apart this cold sandwich with my dry hands
only thing in my pocket is scrap paper with an index of my plans
just one sentence been written
why dont you leave it to chance?
that might need another revision of sorts
i’ll take time tonight to work out this cramp
i call the dog in
i know there’s something in that mouth of his
i put out my hand
he looks in my eyes for a split second till i reach out and pull open his mouth like a sedan
getting in my heads the cut corner
i aint picky bout the split what you arguing on
its all taste its all aesthetics i cut the stack of slices with my forearm
getting in my heads the cut corner
i aint picky bout the split what you arguing on
its all taste its all aesthetics i cut the stack of slices with my forearm
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cropscropscrops Montreal, Québec
montreal based abstract rapper, producer, and occasional video slicer. builder of glitch, narrative, and cracking staircases. here for the longest of hauls.
INQUIRIES --> cropsx3@gmail.com
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