Residual Risk

isyouisorisyouaint has a new album out. 

it’s called residual risk and you can hear it on Apple Music, YouTube Music, Spotify, or wherever else you getcher digital tunes.

Residual Risk

A Song About Slime Molds as Anti-Capitalist Raconteurs

Living in a world fueled by greed,
Where people eat each other to fill a need.
There’s a form to emulate that’s older than old,
Slime mold, sticky hero, will never be bought or sold.

Slime mold power taking over the streets.
Slime mold power, it’s a capital defeat.
Slime mold power, the change we need.
Slime mold power, the revolution we should heed.

Seems a simple fungus fuming far from full, bright light.
Slime mold’s evolved to a state of frightening might.
Spreads over and over the waste left by human sprawl.
Unified, slimy slime hell-bent to cover it all.

Slime mold power taking over the streets.
Slime mold power, it’s a capital defeat.
Slime mold power, the change we need.
Slime mold power, the revolution we should heed.

Not just an ordinary mold.
A story that must spread to unfold,
Gelatinous beast of ever changing shape,
Cares not for class or creed while laying fools to waste.

Slime mold power taking over the streets.
Slime mold power, it’s a capital defeat.
Slime mold power, the change we need.
Slime mold power, the revolution we should heed.

Slime mold slime mold power is here to slip and say:
“Well-stuck together, no one can get in our way!”
Slime mold power, let it run and ring!
Slime mold power, let it stun and sing!

A Song About Slime Molds as Anti-Capitalist Raconteurs

Hades, Hades, Lord of the Dead

Hades, Hades, Lord of the Dead,
Who speaks in the voices of all that’s been said,
Has fathered a child, so the Furies say,
A spawn of bruised shadow, bloated and grey.

The child’s pale eyes glow an eerie, jade light,
While destruction and doom it coos with delight.
Mortals and gods fear the babbling, bald babe;
The mewling creature come to see the world unmade.

It is told that its piercing, exhausting, frail wail
Brings despair to yon virgins and makes the stoutest hearts fail.
And one touch, brief and simple, withers all wills, brings decay;
That the cavern-bred child devours every sun-started ray.

Hades’ child, scourged heir of the vast underworld,
Wrought to bring horrors, before which warm blood curls.
Its existence portends all’s looming death,
A chilling reminder of coming cold, final breaths.

None yet knows the limits of pain a child can hold,
Nor to what depths that pain can grow and unfold.
So we wrap in torrid tales this cursed entity,
To swaddle and soothe it to obscurity.

Hades, Hades, Lord of the Dead

If You Could

You can say I’m a friend who you’ve know beyond forever
or you can say, “Hey, please stay a while.”
There’s a time for sleepless nights and scented candles
and a time for sleepless, sultry smiles.

How can love be so blind?
How can love be so blind?
How come we’re so intertwined?
How come we keep wasting time?

Try to put your worried mind at ease, precious one.
If you could slow the ride you’d wind up late.
You wanna make that big, bright sun super-jealous
so you tell the noon, “The moon and I have a date.”

How can love be so blind?
How can love be so blind?
How come we’re so intertwined?
How come we keep wasting time?

You and me were something like riding down the highway
in the back of rusty, old Ford.
Laughing and waving at the cars passing by us,
couldn’t see the places we were heading towards.

How can love be so blind?
How can love be so blind?
How come we’re so intertwined?
How come we keep wasting time?

Let me take a deep, long breath; I can’t keep up.
My head is spinning round and round.
Lost in the thoughts of who we used to be,
trying to hold together who we are now.

How can love be so blind?
How can love be so blind?
How come we’re so intertwined?
How come we keep wasting time?

How come we keep wasting time?
How come we keep wasting time?
We can see the finish line
so how come we keep wasting time?

If You Could

They’ll Say You’re Scared

Maybe you wanna run away.
Maybe you think the river can hold you.

The pain’s here and it’s there, too.
Sometimes reality is simply not on your side.

Sometimes, they want you the most.
Sometimes, they ask you the most.
Sometimes, you beg them the least.

And that’s when they’ll say you’re scared, when you’re begging the least.
They’ll say you’re scared while handing over a shiny, sharp knife which you may use to pick your dirty teeth clean.

They will go, the things you needed, the things you wanted.
They will go on without you by their side.
It’s easy to explain in poetry because it’s true.

They’ll Say You’re Scared

Children of the Field

We’re the children of the field
We’ve got an empty field to walk through
Black birds overhead
Black birds not too high

And as long as you believe

We’re the children of the field
We’ve got an empty field to run through
Black dirt underfoot
Black dirt dry and cracked

Come along and walk with us

We’re the children of the field
We’re the children of the grain
We’re the children of the giant’s blood
Dirty children needing rain

Children of the Field

Sinners On The Run

The mind, synthetic diamond,
Seduced by sinners on the run,
Makes a refuge of stale shadows
Cast by judgements from one sun.

The heart, malfeasant mechanism,
Bound to sinners on the run
Seeking solace from the bright,
Beguiling prizes they have won.

The soul, valorous vapor,
Vanquished by those sinners on the run,
Re-writes horrors into memories
Of tiny hands held to loaded guns.

Sinners On The Run

A Burnt Offering Song

Exhaled a city of blue, broken dreams,
A bard’s breath of what changes blow.
Lit by strings of lights that blink fast and gleam,
flickering with old hopes to show.

Oh, this night is fast and sounds asleep.
These roads are raped, ragged, and wrong.
Still move we so slowly through thick cloud and dark chain,
while singing sweet, burnt offering songs.

I’ve spit blackened fire and cried tears of red rain,
I’ve cannibalized simple and sane.
And I’ve learned to respect the littlest things
that crawl under skin and through vein.

Oh, this night is fast and sounds asleep.
And these roads are raped ragged and wrong.
Still slowly we move through thick cloud and dark chain,
while singing sweet, burnt offering songs.

Oh, the world is precious, endless, droning noise.
Oh, the world finds silence reproachful.
We no longer hear our glass heart’s beat voice.
And I know here’s where I’ve found my purpose.

Oh, this night is fast and sounds asleep.
These roads are raped, ragged, and wrong.
Still move we so slowly through thick cloud and dark chain,
while singing sweet, burnt offering songs.

So this is for you: a burnt offering song.
I hope that you find it was worth it.
A ritual death from a fire lit long,
fueled by you getting all that you wanted.





A Burnt Offering Song

Some Straitly Walk

“Thus, by tracking our foot-prints in the sand, we track our own nature in its wayward course, and steal a glance upon it, when it never dreams of being so observed. Such glances always make us wiser.”
—Nathaniel Hawthorne

The sun stopped shining
some time ago.

The winds have blown
the palms away.

I seem to recall,
before these rising tides,

there were footprints
right beside me,

right here along the strand.
I find it difficult to know

if the one who left them
had been a one that walked
or been a one that ran.

They’re always over soon,
these rising tides.

And then tomorrow
becomes a thing a century old.

Tomorrows and tides,
returning ever as reminders

of that which what it is
and that which what it is not.

Footprints in the sand.
Sand so soft and silent.

The tides come in.
The tides go out again.

Sand so smooth and silent.
Difficult to hold for long.

Some Straitly Walk

Fertility

I can never ever
________ again.

I’m too old,
too tired,
too lazy
to run in to work.

I hold my breath until I fall down.

Thoughts will come tomorrow.
Then I’ll find out
just what I’ve done wrong.

Yeah, I will listen like a child.

Yeah, I will turn it into song.

Do you feel twice afraid now?
You will live only to die alone.

It’s OK no one gets through it.

You’re going home.
You’re going home.
You’re going home.
You’re going home.

Stop
Stop don’t
go stealing our time.

Too long, too long
And we’re alone – a-
lone.

Too far gone in the flowers
God, these roses look so lonely lonely.

Too far gone in the flowers,
God, these roses need a friend like me.

Fertility