She a bird of summer, I murmur somewhat, hon not made for me to catch in nets. She a blur of colour, I just tried to get the number - like Ishihara test. Is she past perfect, a text I had to stress, that infact the present tense - when syntax in sex, lack of tact the tax for sins of the flesh.
Carnal is the knowledge. Pseudo copulation, like Charles Darwin picking orchids. This is awkward "Barkeep could I please get some Martini with this olive?" Usually the don is, an adonnis - on it, cool as a pond is, in the dawn vapours - slick. Seen me sipping whisky in the office - old school class like Don Draper. I could don a cape or be on a caper. Don Juan's wreckless son, setting songs to the sight of the setting sun in a cadence.
Composing to the sound of her breath or thumb, rapping syncopations of impatience atop table tops while she's waiting. You must understand, usually I'm much more a man but in her presence my artificial intelligence failing.
Failing, in my slumber, it's her number I'm taking, but when I awaken, it seems I'll have to, take a number, and stand in line waiting.
She – re – programmed – me. I wasn't meant to have emotions in the C.
Drive. Strive, to see why, we dive deep as nights, sleep.
Honey check it out you got me mesmerised, with pleasures I don't dare memorise. Take the Turing test. Got an F. I guess at best I tried. But love will make fools of men and women alike and many times, i've been fooled by women I liked. Schooled by the human device of lust and just between us – justice is just ice. To melt in the heat of the moment, love is a machine only deep as it's components. But likely to make people opponents, for affections, for apologies and corrections. For a second, likely to re-route deep truth. Leave fools crushed. Crashed? Re-boot.
Loading loading, too much emotion, got my metal heart corroding. Fools rush in, first love had me blushing. Now these tears got me rusting, combing dustbins for custom-made components. Not accustomed to this human costume that I roam in. She's a walking grenade, face like thunder. Tryna take that number..I'm just tryna take that number.
In my slumber it's her number I'm taking, but when I awaken, it seems I'll have to, take a number, and stand in line waiting. Give me piece of mind – is this time i'm wasting? I lack the patience, I can't be waiting. Left asking, the question, do replicants dream of electric relaxation?
Left asking the question: Do replicants dream of pseudo-copulation?
credits
from BRAIN MATTER,
released February 29, 2016
Beat by M.O.T.O. Words by TH!NK.
The debut, solo LP from TH!NK. Funk, Jazz, Psychedelia and Golden Age Boom Bap combine to make a kaleidoscopic, multi-layered and entertaining palette for insightful lyrical acrobatics. TH!NK
