Welcome to a new experiment.

We're going to keep this link continually growing every month or so. It'll be exclusive first listens, demos, ideas, remixes with other artists, merch ideas, etc. Whatever it is, this will serve as a little window to our brains.

Welcome to the sandbox.

Your Sunflower Boys,

-Samy & Bones


The Way Time Speeds Up With Age

I’ve been thinking about sewing

my mouth shut

to lose weight

and get shredded like

fresh mulch

on my father’s suburban lawn

 

Send me to the horizon

to dry out and

clear my skin

and write my story for the

rest of my years

with an emotional awareness

that pisses on logic and

the kind of truth

that alleviates headaches

and causes them

at the same time

 

Today is just another

inch towards something

as rewarding as death

and

tomorrow I’ll see

the hypocrisy of

being born

and sort through

personhood like racks

at a  

Village Discount

 

I want deeply

to be from the

Pocket of God

and cut the part

of my head off

that lies

I want deeply

to be from the

Pocket of God

and see everything

the way Sonny sees

the Atlantic

when he pulls up his first bluefish

or misses someone

for the first time

I want deeply

to be from the

Pocket of God

and see like Sunny

when she looks at

wrinkles like

the insides of trees and

not like prehistoric

river beds

all sea salt dehydrated

tellers of nothing

 

I want to be ocean open

and look like

a young Mickey Rourke

while I do it

and do away with these

screaming birds

that cry righteousness into

days filled with fucklessness

gross generalizations

of mechanisms we can’t

see at work

like acclimation as a gradual means

to understanding infinity

or the way time

speeds up with age

IMG_6702.JPG
IMG_6717.JPG
IMG_6688.JPG
IMG_6647.JPG

Templestowe

 

If you find something beautiful

beat it mercilessly until a poem falls out

and convince yourself that it’s more

important than true self-actualization  

until you’re a lonely old bird

on a bar stool

where you’ll

watch the news very loudly

so as to be sure you understand

that there is in fact

poison in the baby food

and you’ll think back to another time

where you used to have sex with

killers and paralegals and waitresses

and maybe accountants or singers from time

time and you’ll ponder how

when you get older the things

that pierce your heart become different

and love becomes  

less about resume

and more about fresh produce

and good movies

and you’ll realize that

if you drink late into night

into morning

into moon

into sun

enough times in a decade you can sometimes become

Bukowski and drink golden piss like the hopeless romantic

you are

and have become

through the art

of mediocre fucks tucked

between a pillow

and a mattress

where you would ask girls about middle names

and sometimes your fever would break  

and sometimes you would sleep

and sometimes you wouldn’t

and sometimes you’d sweat and labor

over the idea that you’re all the man

you’ll ever have to be

and you would feel many things

wretchedly profound and poetic

but you would not feel peace  

and you’ll see cheap scotch as an art form

and that you should be thankful for

the lovers that made you feel pain

and made you fall in love with the way

that you feel pain

and that

you are most truly virtuous and present

when feeling pain

induced by someone

more comfortable

with the idea of a lonely night

and a clear head

and a glass of water

and a piece of fish

and you won’t relate

because you love the way

the bar smells

and beating poems out of everything

beautiful until there’s nothing left

but an old bird

on a bar stool 


To Charles Bukowski,

When I was 18 years old I went to a poetry reading on Chicago’s far north side at the Green Mill. I was told that’s where the real ones hang. I went with a professor of mine. A poet. I read for the first time that night and people clapped. My professor patted me on the back. I used a fake ID to buy myself a scotch. It made me feel a step ahead. That same year I got my heart broken for the first time, or perhaps I broke my first heart. I can’t remember. But I remember feeling that I understood. I remember convincing myself that it wasn’t my fault. That I was the center of the cosmos and phenomena was the world constructing itself around me as I’d walk down sidewalks, bed down with someone who never told me their middle name, cheat bartenders like death, etc.

It wasn’t until a year later that I found you, and upon this discovery I was forced to deal with myself for the first time. You showed me what wretched accountability looks like. You showed me the dangerous beauty of self-awareness. You showed me what it might look like to be an old-head that’s lived with oneself fearlessly and without apology. You are why I will die unabashedly myself and for this I thank you.

Best,
Samy

"Produced by Bones and Zack Marks, “Sunflower Drips” is both sunny and chaotic, a perfect backdrop for Language’s poem. Though Language describes the song as a “conversation” between him and his future self, it’s really more of an argument and a fiery one at that."

James Schiff • EARMILK


Where the poetry started.

"Dress Warm"

(Official Video)

Brooklyn, 2014.

Enjoy.