Corpus Callosum

by OdderOtter

/
  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price

     

1.
01:53
2.
3.
03:00
4.
02:29
5.
02:05
6.
00:51
7.
02:15
8.
9.
00:12

about

all made by the odter

credits

released June 24, 2015

tags

license

about

OdderOtter Calgary, Alberta

The otter makes songs and then you probably listened to them if you are here or else you probably go to soundcloud.com/theoddestotter to listen to the other stuff that is not here yet or maybe will not ever be who knows

contact / help

Contact OdderOtter

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Self(ish)
I want to see you pop a sick wheelie over your feelies because the "literal" agony appeals to only peach-fuzz-stached / jizzed-jeans preteenies and you're an adult now. Do you feel me?
I'll be the bike and you can be the peddle-pusher of bygones circling pylons if you'd quit whining on the sidewalk and just hop on.
Man, I follow your plan. I get that the subtleties stretch to infinity and back and that the only need is for a rollie and a nap, and that nine times out of ten you'll ditch friends to write raps alone in your bedroom and attack yourself later for being an asshole. But you're not. You've spent the better part of the last two years in that bedroom working hermit life and now you can only feel normal knowing where your notebook is at all times. It's nearly full, and it's nearly time to put it on the shelf with all of the others. But, still, it's never enough to keep the itchies out.
Everything's getting easier now because you're practicing on the daily. In your car on the way to your day job, jotting odd thoughts at stop lights, or pages deep in the back corner of the parking lot writing frantically because it keeps coming out and you can't stop it.

Dude, I feel a breeze coming. Check it out.

You've got a mound to make to a mountain. You've got an ounce to make to a pound. You've got the skills, the will, and devotion to be the planet that swallowed the ocean. You'll be the rocket that's ready and pointed to the sky-gods and their notions over your destiny (desk-locked in a sweater vest pushing cars on the suburban public).
Nah, fuck that shit. Write bars until Peter puts your name on his guest list, checks it, the scythe casts death on your head, and you've got to leave your body to the maggots.
Zig Zags make a whiz bang harder to ignore than the chanting in your dreams for the money.

But while they're up all night to have fun, you're up all night to get yucky.
Track Name: Hotbox Beebop
I want to fit the whole in the wigwam with no legs akimbo for the genital haymakers to put a bull’s-eye on the corn-hole. You said you wanted a hook, so I stuffed cheddar in my cheeks. But nary a nibble, nary a fucking peep. I've got my line sunk deep but every tug is another sandal, and it's becoming a real handful to talk down at something so intangible. The rind peels fanciful, and the hindsight grows clearer, and you actually start to believe that dying is not to be feared, but rather studied and engineered, or rather regurgitated and sneered at. I wanted to be the gold dust that gods had sniffed at and hug the sun like it's hugging me back. "I supplied the sand to the moon, and you want to approach me dude? Not today, I'm in no fucking mood. Loose that tude and get the lube down from the shelf. No apologies because I intended to be rude when I told you to go and fuck yourself"
I brought the torch to pyre, I am a scion of flame, I bare smokes in fist and bares hate in name and thrusts fuck in fame. I remain blameless for spitting the vision at little emission playlists until I’m day-less and the light grows thin. I grow greyest. The bee-bop sadist.

Le fin.
Track Name: Swell
Feeling like he hasn't felt the sun for days, he rises slow and picks flies from silt-composed corpse ash. Splayed out. Played out. The cubicle shrinks until another day's out. Molded meat shrink-wrapped: grey now. How now? When the weathered water reserves collapsed cow town, they pick another portion of the pie now. Look another portion in the eye now slide out knives. Count down to the second when they bow down.

No mounts for the Christ of our modern fouls. No knocks thrice at the gates of hell. No fountains for our cups to fill from, and still no mountains worthy of our ascension.

We're in the kingdom. Slave wage for serfdom. Puppets of princes long-gone, wronged by our amendments, strong-armed by businesses privy to our convictions.
One man's interest for the death of a million.

He plucks keys with inert respect. He crosses seas for the stories they've kept. He crafts words with amazing depth to bring you back to the places that you thought you'd left. He keeps a coin in a chest for each precious he crept and doubles back fortnights while the mortals slept to pet every bevel blessed by the summer of sept from two-ought-ought-six up to the day that he rests. But seven summers digressed into and endless cesspit. Promises of plural giddiness melts to wet blankets, dead sadists, and blackening maggots (swollen on their fathers' love for bloated corpses).
Examine the portions which you take per meal and cross-examine your results against reliable sources.

Ghost horses coming down from the hill.
Open your eyes,
Hold your breath,
And keep still.
Track Name: Lollipop
If you put the badger into the bag with the other badgers, does it work to steady his rage or does it fill him with uglier matters? Sick fun with slick dumb-dumbs and thick guns. Taking a page from the shunned to be number two, but who the fuck won?

HeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipopHeAdAcHeLollipop

Behemoths riding mammoths from the blindside to the tongue-tied Munster antibaptists, for they never wore their habits. And they never clutched their rosaries at the yakkity-saks madness, and the ergot takes hold regardless. Death is a promise and blood is the passage, so you'd better pray for the latter or end up prey to the masses. Thick as thieves in molasses sweating heavy in the darkness and wanting to switch torch just to gasp at the monsters heaving heartless.

I'm a culmination of Dude mentality, because my father was Mr. Lebowski. I'm a dude if you're a dude! I'm a Lebowski; you're a Lebowski paddling down-creek toot-sweet with a sail and a ten-speed entirely irreverent to the jealousy that it breeds. I wear the cloak of needs and I toss the seed it sow for the greedy go-betweens, and I master-plaster alabaster placards for the bastard showman's pleas. I want to wash the stacks for the patient who are lacking and be the signal that it needs before attacking.
Track Name: Synthister
I see myself inside the eye of the storm. A child birthed in scorn. A shroud adorned in lore and indescribable forms. In abhorrent how the warned shuck cornhusks for more while the whore and schmucks suck rust to please lords. The rubberest ducks will burn rubber at dusk just to prove to the globe that their moving forward, but it actually sucks because they traded their wings up for an iPod charger and a usb cord.

Gravitas: Flawless.

Cockroach metamorphosis, modesty to the rich yet nothing to give the orphans. Mosaics of significant treasures pale in comparison to the ubiquitous mailing of junk letters. Insensitive, cretinous, indescribably putrid peacemakers passing pipe for the paper until the maker is their savior.

We want a savory dish, but what we get is a dick and we bite down regardless.

Holding up our spears to the air,
We may cheer but it doesn't mean we like it here.
We wear shorts to black tie affairs,
And you can get fucked with those awkward stares.

Everything was beautiful and nothing ever hurt, so we should take what we learned and pin it tight to our shirts sleeves so we can work for groceries. Vocational puppetry until our days are weeks and our goals are their commodities. Monetary reverie synthesized for a fish, so you can try is you like but we are always the bitch.

Trade the scythe for a stitch to toil further a bit,
But all the pills in the world could never fight the sickness.
Track Name: Secretion
Your arms and legs are so spaghettiable, but your face is so forgettiable. I'm amazed you keep up face disgraced, as all by sloughing skin, it's terrible. Wearable chins akin to shareable skipping stones on the lips of your foes. It goes: skip, skip, ocean swallow. I'm at whole foods getting full on samples. Ramped up with the pants cuffed and a lance rusting in a Starbucks cup cuz the pup-pup is half-drunk and stifles the urge for impending upchuck. So he swallows the spew now, and the crowd melts in their pews now, and he's wondering what he should do now, so he pulls the trigger and shoots now. Gobble-dee-gook and dog chow are a meal now, but his nose turns up proud and he shuts it down so the crowd can take what they want to now.

To the south, a fury and sound, a sickle and axe, a fox and hound. Fickle as young taste buds, peanut butter jelly rabble-rouser renounced.
Track Name: FUTURhymE
On a log by the creek where the moss grows thick, and where the moon mists settle on both berry and stick. The summer had crept up subtly, humbled further by the frosted tips which still clung here and there to shit. The stick and pinecone medley mish-mashed on the carpetted floor blanket the daggers who will rise once more to claim every fallen jogger and whore who ventures further than the signs by the path had warned.
They're taking naps now, but sun is never why they've slept or what they've kept up to their hips once the autumn had left.

If you want to tread steady:
Step to the left,
keep your head on your shoulders,
and dodge deftly.

With amazing grace they're putting foot over hand, so, with unimaginable pace, they climb enormous plants. If you can see they're face, you are already cut in half. They keep the boom boom bass inside they're bladed hands. Those who ask shall have, but those who take shall be slashed to ribbons for they're bloody soup-base fast.

They keep the amythest entombed in the roots and caverns and praise mommy like the devil is a phantom.

They put the farm up first and ask questions last. They take your supper and give you only a 'fuck you' back. They'll put the finger up slow and shove it into your face before they take your head for their pikes and leave the rest for waste.

"We should slip a bit of liquor into her kisser because our liquor's got a lot of kick."
"Ya, shit, you'd better give it to her."
"Woah... wait... easy man........ follow the plan...."

At the top of the hour, once the deed is done, the can rest their hearts with thick shunts.
Track Name: Yucky Pharmaceutical
Tossed key. Animal chewing through the maggots. Gangrene dripping from his gums, and scruffy topped. Like a kismet of scribbled shit with sweaty tits heaving at the thought of little kiddies to share it with. Embarrassed by his oodles of baggage, he released the kraken to devour the bacon where all of the pure were lacking. He depressed the tongue to scope the molars for cavities, but what he found was a nest full of eggs and berries.
So he fried them up with hash and coffee. The following breakfast rivaled red-sea glory. When the alligators begged him for allegories he piped up,

"I've only got a few, but let me tell you all a story. A couple of feet in the earth you'll find the mealworms burping up little bits of dirt that still cling to the corpses. You can trust that their work was laborious and their spoils were glorious and their character built up. There were elegant and enormous purplish pachyderms picking up peanuts by the roadside wearing handmade garments and filling their v-dub to the bonnet. The elephant rifle vomited skylight commits until the situation was critical and..... we all went fishing to bond! Paper birch chick beaks bark peeps in the dark until the air meets their wings and they're free to sing their praises to god. Up to heaven or down low for the kill? Well, the cats catch their hold and pull them down for a meal. The rats feast next upon the bones and scraps until the town dog packs follow orders from their guts and attack, but bring their masters back the couple fattest for the hand that feeds can also dole out head pats."

This dude is a massive rash on the back of the block party dancing on the planet of the apes in a man-mask trying to escape on the off-ramp bombed as fuck. He plowed the hood through the back of a bus and the rush triggered more than enough.