Live at the Rock Pile, 1​/​11​/​13

by Mr. Denim

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Mr. Denim Illinois

Not so folk, not so punk, but we take what we can get.

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Track Name: Shit I'm Afraid Of Pt. II
I'm afraid of sex, I don't know how it's done. I'm afraid of drugs, and I guess that means that I'm afraid of having fun. I'm afraid of those smarter than me, because I'm fucking dumb. Shit, who am I kidding? I'm afraid of everyone. I'm afraid to quit working, even though I hate my job. I'm afraid of religion. Yeah, I'm afraid of your god. I'm afraid of fighting. I guess that makes me a pussy. I'm afraid to love. Refer to the statement above. I'm too afraid to kill myself, I'm too afraid to live. I'm afraid of all the monsters living inside my head. Lately I've been so fearful, I've been praying for untimely death... Or prescription meds. And on the night before I man up and die by my own hand, I will be sure to sing the things that I left out of all these stupid songs. You can't tell me that I'm wrong for feeling so worthless, so pathetic, and ugly all along.
Track Name: College Sucks and You Know It
Post-it notes keep my head on straight these days. I need them to remember all the trivial shit that keeps me busy week to week and day to day, until I hop onto that train that takes me to familiar faces. I'm up to my ears in people I don't want to meet, forever shouting things I don't agree with. Is this a place of higher education or some liquor-fueled vacation? No, I think this is where tolerance goes to die. You won't be replaced, I won't forget you and all the words you said that made me smile way back when. Well, it wasn't long ago, but it feels like forever, because all my days have been going so slow. You won't be replaced, I can't forget you and all the words you said that made me smile way back when. And it wasn't long ago, but it feels like forever, because all of my days have been going so fucking awfully.
Track Name: Pottymouth
Well, I started smoking last year for fun. I don't think that it's quite hit me what a battle I've begun. I suck cancer through my lips, and blow it out again into the space that you are in. I don't think that this anger will amount to anything, right now it's just words on paper, or that I'm screaming at a microphone to a bunch of you that I convinced to listen. You're being robbed. Why does all this trouble talk bother me? Do I hold my own shackles or do I hold a key? Shouldn't I feel young? Shouldn't I feel free? Shouldn't I feel privileged or something? Well, I don't. I think the thing that scares me most about this whole mess are the things I'm capable of but I choose not to do. It's like I pride myself on being second best and laugh it off like it's no big deal. Who am I kidding? And I want to create. I want something to call my own. I don't want to be defined by all the shit I hate.
Track Name: Us vs. Us
I continue to be unimpressed by the wisdom I do not possess. I struggle to form these sentences, half the time. How can their words be so succinct? It's getting to the point where I'm starting to think that spitting vulgar nonsense is my only option. Well, those guys are hardcore, and those guys are punk-rock, and I think that they hate me, because why should they not? I take something that they hold dear and turn it into something that goes down easy, and cheap, and half-wit, and dull. If I die before I wake, and these six strings remain intact, you'll have conclusive evidence that I'm a fucking hack. The much more preferred, rock star-esque way to go is spending thousands of dollars in some designer drug overdose. So I'm making all my plans, and I won't be discrete. I'll die right fucking here screaming all my stupid songs from my stinky feet. What I'm trying to do is question standards and be honest. I'm no punker demigod, and I'm sure as shit not a prophet. I wanna busy my idle hands with more constructive things to do than fucking palm-mutes, and middle fingers in a tired-ass fuck you. I wanna bleed my own blood, I want gorgeous things to see, like a thousand fucking kids going dancing in the streets. And they won't listen to their parents who'll tell them to get a job, or cut their hair, or shower or whatever. So I think before we tackle, what's lying down the road, we'd better make goddamn sure that everything's okay at home.
Track Name: The First Week is the Hardest
Why am I here? I guess I'm trying to prove I'm not as dumb as I think I am. That I can wake up in the morning with purpose and intent to do something slightly more productive than watching Arrested Development for hours on end like I've been doing lately. I crave sweat and a raspy throat, and a cup of coffee and a cigarette all alone. Loneliness is common for me these days, everyone I know is so far away. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but they forget to mention the solitude. I don't think that I can do this longer. It's a blessing and a curse, but hey, that's life. I can sleep on the beach, and the Great Lake Michigan can take me somewhere closer to you. You haven't answered a single call, but go ahead, you can dodge them all. I've got nothing to say except I love you.
Track Name: Dead White Men
I'm sick of living through the words of dead white men, so I'll write my own. Talking's easy when it's about all the ugly shit I see every day, but it gets harder to talk about what I believe, or don't. So while you're sitting here, preoccupied with comfy living, it's hard for me not to pose the question: What's life without tired bones or achy feet? What's life without wondering where I'm going to sleep? Why can't my life be like the books I read?
Track Name: The Stranger
I'm going to find all the ugliest words in any human language, gonna define myself. But part of me thinks I'd just be wasting my time, there are no words for me, you can't ask anybody else. Mall-dwelling tweens have claimed werewolves and vampires, and Frankenstein was blessed with his maker nearby. So, I haven't got foresight, I've given myself a short while to sneak off and die, so nobody might think anything crazy or make any bold moves. No, it's time to get going, now it's time to choose between living my life the way that I want to, or ending it all like I was born to lose. So here we find ourselves, the crux and the crossroads. It seems like I got here using wisdom I've borrowed from punk rock songs and the handful of novels I've lived vicariously through. Albert Camus, you showed me a stranger. A far cry from the one we found in the manger. And neither of whom I would like very much, I'd wager. But that's what you get when you spend nineteen fucking years like I did. I focused too much on who I wanted to be, wrapped up in the folds of my mind I was snug as could be. I was living in filth that I made by myself, with every old me I put back on the shelf. Look at me now, I couldn't care in the least. I just wanted a new me, I just wanted to sleep. I wanted to die, I wanted someone to listen, and I wanted to shine and I wanted to glisten. I wanted to live like a bum and a prophet. I wanted to live with no money in pocket. Look at me now, I should be petty and careless. I should get drunk with my friends and not chain-smoke into excess, trying to stimulate what brain cells I can muster to write any words I won't scratch out in a fluster or a flurry of pen strokes, I'll write til my hand cramps, I'll scream til the veins in my neck pop like spray paint cans. Only they can know the illness I feel of all the pressure of all the words I never had the courage to say or would never come out right anyway. Don't you see why I'm like this? I'm not fucking clever, I'm insane.
Track Name: A Sloppy Arrangement of Poorly Thought-Out Ideas
Feels like someone's got a hold of my throat. I'm screaming, I'm gasping, in due time I'll choke on my few final words: "What a horrible joke." Not much to be remembered, but so these things go. Spitting through clenched teeth, I'm biting my tongue. There's a war in my head, but the outsiders won. Why don't I learn to calm down? Why don't I have fun? But these cliches are much sooner said than they're done. Leave me high, leave me dry leave me trampled. Feed me all the bullshit you can. I never learned to be an example, and I sure as hell never learned to be a man. Fists balled in anger, faces sneer in disgust. All you identical cogs will all in time rust, leaving nothing behind but your feces and dust, in your infamous motto: "In nothing we trust." Nobody stands up, no one lifts a finger. Stare God in the face, and ask him "Why bother?" I'll flip him the finger, he'll send me to hell. I'll go down gladly, laughing. I'll rot there forever. Oh well.