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Your Sunflower Boys,

-Samy & Bones

Tidal Breathing

A mother’s love’s the only thing that’s constant

And purpose serves what we place upon it

A thing is a thing not what you call it

Whether it’s loved, hated, celebrated, demonic

And hate is an equation that is not worth solving

‘Cause hate breeds a love that is ever-evolving

It shines like sun around which we’re revolving

Engaging with the come-up but the hustle is haunted

Follow your calling

Sonny, follow your calling

Your mother is calling

Your mother is calling

Sun, rain, time, light

Twenty twenty hindsight

Sunny, Sonny, Sunny, Sonny

Put you in the limelight

Ask me what my life’s like

And what it’s like to die twice

Live for a millenium

Then wither like a zeitgeist

Fishnets and french women

Leave it all on the bed linen


If you peel back all my skin

You’d see I’m a real work of art


The part of me that people understand

Are reconstructed pieces of my head


You like a man with calloused hands

And good dick when you need it

And I like a girl that speaks in French

And sleeps in fishnets in the evening

I’ll paint your legs long

Like Mississippi river

You can paint all my scars

Like windows with a view

Darling don’t encourage this

This self-affirming circus

Everyone’s a hollow shell

Searching for a purpose

I want ownership over my flaws

Stories behind all my scars

The value of a thick skin’s

The value of teeth to a shark


The parts of me that people understand

Are reconstructed pieces of my head

‘Cause if you saw the shit that’s in my head

You’d pull a pistol, shoot me, kill me dead

Cheatin, fuckin, smokin, drinkin

Impulse huggin inhibition

Cold turkey sober livin

Wild turkey, all I’m thinkin

Paint me like motherfuckin french girl


This was the first song completed for Venn Diagrams in 2015. Bones wrote his verse first which is an account of a man being consumed by a garden. This imagery ended up serving as a central motif for the rest of the album, you can hear some of this imagery in tunes like Nitelite, Everybody's Synesthetic, and Mushroom Moon. A garden at the center of a Venn diagram, where everything is lush and vibrant and overgrown. The colors Bones was creating with the instrumental and through his verse led me (Samy) down a Mark Rothko rabbit hole. I found his exploration of color to mirror what Bonelang wanted to achieve with Venn Diagrams; painting mood more then concrete images. The painting in the middle below is my favorite painting. I stared at it while writing my verse.


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


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



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.


"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.