Garden Party or Aural Distraction For A Diminished Attention Span

by OdderOtter

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about

This album was produced entirely by members of The Hidden Garden Collective. Any amount donated will be divided evenly among contributing members. We love each other, we love you. Thanks!

credits

released October 14, 2016

Cover art by Carson Long
Production by: J. Fisher, B#gsaw, Yufu, Snibbles, Uncle Bone, If I Look Strong; U Look Strong, Ill Yang, Glitter Glue, and Odter Himself

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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

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Track Name: Aural Distraction For A Diminished Attention Span - Uncle Bone
supplementary to your twitter and your instagram this is aural distraction for a diminished attention span this is what we do with a couple of hours left to no task and this is what i squeeze from escitalopram i caught cooties over a wink and a loosie so filibuster hoisting my petard until i'm dewey knock knock who is in the future now? a goosey in a chevron to looney town loosely based on the allowance of my priors with snake face and stalactite incisors and supple bodies over eccentric liars and shuffled footies to their deepest desires got a fridge like a sereal killer who has been on a bender and write poems like a close-to-the-end-er thirty seven thieves by the slave girl oil is forty dead thieves over rights to the soil
Track Name: Mick & Rorty - J. Fisher
Chicken Hawks guard the locks to the kombucha box while meninist colony boys are swallowing hogwash. Goose-step swill from the gullet of the Cardiff giant like “If I aint real, you aint motherfucking dying.” I am the Chekhovian gun, I am a jingo charlatan, I am the fire in the mist above the ocean. I am thalidomide once thought safe to stuff your babies with who cuts switch to whip shit savage. I am the pitter-patter hither & thither upon the withering palm fronds that determine what the weather is here & whether leather is measured by meters of rhythms or metrics. Hectic iterations echoing infinite. Desperate. I was hoping to exit with the lessons in my ribbons of flesh that dangle left, hung careless, by the ruthless beasts who think that chemical warfare is the next logical step up from rights to arm bears. Lemon-wrapped tentacle tackle box stack, quick fix! Deliver that to the couple at #26 & remember that barrette brap knock-knocks are not allowed in the private box. Cover those wrist slits with a platinum wristwatch. Hotbox, six pack, black out, no cheques, no car, no home, no worries, no stress, no stems, no seeds, no sticks until death. Hold your breath & take a step to the edge. You wanted a golem of gold, but I am a golem of bone. I bring the terrors of night into your children’s homes because the songs I write are teething, nasty, poems. Once the fang’s grown, I’m gonna take a bite. There are no comparable honors for indescribable horrors of unimaginable scope to tell your sons & daughters. The Thelonious hope among the hoards of squatters who will rush the walls of what is ours. Hey, what does the queen do? Roadside ghost bike sight cruise? Lamplight at twilight with menarche flesh juice. A pink peach to pucker & bend brow to. A pleated-shorts’d defeatist forged in the densest weeds you could ever beat your brains in. No, I am not about to start. I am about the rip lungs & heart to spit tales into the darkness because I am a lanolin krelboyne screaming that DEATH IS AN ILLUSION to the roar of the lion & the crowd in unison. “PREACH batter batter PREACH batter batter PREACH” Must wake early. Must wash sheets. Take me to the water & rest me on the wake. Bones to broil & meat to bake, I’m easy & it doesn’t take much to please me just as long as I’ve been seasoned generously.
Track Name: Yum Yucker (Duet with Brom)
In the province of corpses & public housing is disorder a rival to reciprocity
Delousing the propensity for fondling the sickest of orderlies &
abhorrently ranting about the Who in authority.

A pressure cooker full of dog food, a salt wound,
a snout full of coke, so he’s acting rude &
shoves a five into his pocket to produce some shake & says
‘take it, please, it’s an illusion in the making!”

Explosive & effusive, a Vesuvius of hatred
Spaceman take this ray gun to the guest list
I’ve been wondering what my name is &
Wondering who this face is
Cutting my teeth in the basement
This is culpable derangement
This is five in your face, kid.

Eat cakes like starved for weeks to make weight
Stay fake & keep attention to the game. Stalker fame, lurk the name
Steady refrain from pummeling message into brain &
Shoveling morsels into frame

Ghastly vapors & spectering wisps of paper whispering
“I am a slave to the rather irrelevant reruns”
Dude, hold that tongue lest we hold it on a bun
Rest this tooth on the lung &
Kiss the ever of what’s to come.

Head full of bourbon, eyes full of daggers, gut full of bile full of mites full of sabers
Fistful of ships full of tips for the rangers, slap this fist for the rights to the savior
Good Christ, give a dime to the meter, a rhyme to the theater,
A cyanide beaker, a pyramid scheme with a hive mind thesis
Beveled on the edges with an eye for the leisure.

Cold crushing, ghost busting.
The floor is buzzing, do something.
Spawn raiser, dawn chaser,
Lawn baker actively seeking danger.
Salt sanctions, cult fragrance,
Banana split whipped, the kind to double dip
Bum ticker, ah, another fissure
Double-header double-fister until he’s
Rotting in a ditch somewhere.
Track Name: Wallpaper In Hell - If I Look Strong; U Look Strong
Sublime subliminal sublimation. Beta-max weapons for beta-buds & brilliant sheep. Trading blank stares for protective masks & trying to guide this vessel to the milk bath. A contemplative sphinx of a garden-girdled Babylon babbling incessantly of money/ water/ food pawns like he's trying to get blood drawn with nary a thought to which gut he lay the beat upon.

Like a settle-aged villain with a collar he knows just what he offers. Lipstick, fuck it if it was proper. Pick a straw for a herring of a proverb. Pitch black & oppressively silent, it's a seismic enigma in a kismet navigating by the prospect of profit. Kid, you want to give it a kick? It's well worth it!

Wallpaper in hell. Guided by Phobos to nightmare itself. Burn apart where he fell & rise from the ashes encompassed in spell. Venus on a half shell shakes gums at the cauliflower skin. Not a wishing well, but wishing well-wishers to hit the city with cyclopean strangeness & a brain-dead violence.

Hell, killing the dog won't fix the bite but try it if you'd like. You've got to take it with a fork & knife. All of the devils & worshippers are taking the same flight. Life is a bitter bitch. I want your slice, so summon up Pazuzu for the 'no dice' & bomb hills with your buds for the night. When he lays paint it's a jack knife. Why does mine always look like a blood fight?

To have said is to have done
to have done is to have sinned
what you've said with what you've done
is the crown on which you sit
I scribe your name in to this pot
I fill the pot with shit
I burn the shit-filled pot
I smash it into bits
Now with this curse I bring to life
evil secrets which you've hid
with this wrist I raise this knife
I give the offering to commit
With this blood & with this slit
I seal your fate along with it
into the flame
into Beelzebub's eternal grip
Track Name: Baphomet Boogie - J. Fisher
Stop. Step to the left. Do a dilly-dally for a sec & listen up.
I’ve got
6 on a sizzle
6 for the little
666 summoners & heavier metals for others fellows
Half-chewed egg yolks, folksy h& slaps, & I’m gonna record vocals on a yak-bak
Top that.
Set fives to smack & put the Tasers back & try to relax, I’ve got this.

Put your little pennies back in the sack, I’ve got a bundle of fives wrapped in a napkin
I wouldn’t hate it if you stole this track. I wouldn’t hate it by the neck in my closet.

Peddle yellow puddles & Fetti Wopples & many awful cherry popping
Puppy-papa proverbs proffering the apostles with Pentecostals or a
Pentagram or a popsicle. Love it or leave it, I am a mouthful.

Summoning the fingers to the roof with a chant to the J.Fish jams

Put your fingers in each other, feel each other up, & get fucked, it’s consensual.

It’s incredible the way the air around me breeds sick like a cancer ward.
It’s, like, twelve bucks for a pack of smokes so I’m on an ounce of month
because I’m day-job poor.

PLEASE FEED THE ODTER
Track Name: Tender Bravado pt.1 - Yufu
Mini skirts & maxi pads
Golf shirts for soccer dads
Tip-surf to summer plans of kissing dirt & raising h&s
Easy-peasy, feeling empty
Lemon squeeze the sour something
Please believe the proverb dumplings
Ease the feelies found disgusting

There was a time behind the diner when the rhymer was up higher than the fires fanned to burn the whole place down. It was the time before the shiner was indicative of the finer points of making faces & making places close down. Hit the lampposts now with the little stickers of clowns that we found scattered around the train car. How are we so far now? How are we so high now? Was it you or was it I who held the l& speed record in staying dry while getting by, now?

Tender bravado: this is the motto.

Whale songs & howled thoughts, it’s all show. Where does the tree grow? Wherever there is less snow, & whenever the season slows he packs his bags & he goes.

1. The grass is in the ghost head.
2. Keep the kitten well fed.
3. The cash is in the speaker set (but I would advise it’s use to settle up the debts.
Track Name: Ativan
If I’m only here because I’m doing this
& I’m only doing this to fill the void
Then am I only here to fill the void?
I don’t know, but here I am… the doctor gave me some Ativan because I’ve been freefalling for five days & trying to plug the tailspin up with green grams. I’m about to lose my day job, I can’t complete the grant sheets, & I can’t compel myself enough to venture off of this love seat. This bowl has DMT, the ceiling has eyes on me, the kitten is crying incessantly but, still, the will escapes me to be anything other than weeping-mess relieving stress. Who said it best?

I’m done.
Put a fork in me.
Aim for a lung.
Track Name: Black Hole - Snibbles
Ghost town spook frowns lowdown soap clowns getting high on the down low for twelve rounds.
Only ever eat when the sun’s down.
Only ever sheep in the dream cloud.
Only ever reap what was thrown out.
Only ever meet who is who.
Only, really, meekish with a few, so it’s cool now.

Live like dad’s not home with riff raff puppet shows & pit stops at half-full for days peaceful. No joke, slap knees with folk & blow smoke to comatose with eyes back-rolled.

Black hole: center of an infinite nothing, pretender of a never be one day, defender of a role less played. Ashes to the air to the dirt in the ground by Sunday.

Bleaching the hair does not a tan man make
We will consider it fake, it was a troubled mistake,
It was the rattle in snake, the camel straw to break,
The icing to cake, the final point in the game.

So we let it set & bake.
Allow the pressure to make space.
Still lay awake.
Still restless retracing the day.

Black hole.
Track Name: Esplanade - B#gsaw
between timid and timbuktu there's a bit of time for a mouthy little bish like you but not here booboo i am cool breeze morning dew crushing shells at a seashore near you i am popping i am blowtorch call me popcorn or call me hymen or call me later kid because i'm driving all of the fingers to the air with the drop in the space between light and saber i'm gonna take your little breath away bish darth vader savour it are you embarrassed yet flavour it i guess piss and shit after you sample this you'll want the B# dick with the lights on until the morning hits and you'll want to cum on my face and tits and fuck my shit before you show it off to your friends so they can marvel at it
Track Name: Salty - Ill Yang & B#gsaw
Siamese budgies boogie to the B#gsaw
Illyang’s got fangs for the father.
One box? Two box?
We want nada.
We want three on a track in a gada da Vida
On the tower of Pisa
With a tower of pizza & a
Tower of cheese upon a
Tower of beats.
Praise Jesus, Mona Lisa!
Sheesh, I’ve got a gullet of bees motherfucker.
& skinned knees, motherfucker.
& pockets full of lint in my jeans, motherfucker.
A silent as a lamb may scream motherfucker
With a thumb for the rad & a finger for the busters.

Muster up a thanks a bunch & give a fuck for free shit & a gangster mug, little pup.
Perpetuate your pretty little poems over trap-rap mimics of what you hear in other songs.

I pulled this one straight through the bong.
What is this that you’re leaning on?
Who is this you’ve been sleeping on?
Who are these kids with their weapons drawn??

They were born six feet in the knuckle doggery
Subtly & suddenly beneath the shrubbery
They fought tooth & nail through the hoards of puppetry
How did they emerge so lovely?

Venomous tales of slippery snails &
gusty sails running the pale little piggies to the feed tray.
Blink once if you’re ready to start
Or blink twice & we’ll call it a day.

Maybe they are the ‘them’
or the ‘they’
or the ‘there’
that they are the same for
Track Name: Who - J. Fisher
You shouldn’t give a pig a peck of the flesh of the h& that feeds when opportunity knocks & you invite her to stay for breakfast. Every beat in the pattern of overstaying your welcome is cannon fodder for martyring inexplicable doom. Tell her it irks you to shape the tombs before assessing the wounds & examining other thought balloons. Sniff the glue before she fills the room with rage platoons & little silver arrows shoot the roost of endless suffering.
Kiddies, start remembering that if guns are fun then death is a slumber party.

I’m not picking up dice to pay the bills & the rent,
I’m a rival to bears in our relation to killing it.

Little villagers, eager to tame the mother-tongued doctor, locked in shops to operate under softer offers of diamonds & gold so they can talk to odder otters than others & slang comparable to water-walkers or walkie-talkers.
Faux furs earn faux-pa pricing so allow your jaw to drop while I deliver the icing.

I could move a meteor using the power of will,
I’m a rival to lepers in our relation to being ill.

I think I’d need some aqualungs to recover jellyfish eggs from the cover of over fourty-thous& leagues under water that’s tipping into the solar system in order to bolster the crowd of rowdy rockers radical shots at rapists instead of eachother.

Belief is something sacred & personal, & if you want to yell about it, fine.
Just don’t do it at me, dude.

Quit picking on Christ for putting fishes in buckets,
Be a rival to sloths in your relation to fuck-it’s.
Track Name: Withered - B#gsaw
I am OK & I can pull my own weight &
I can make my mistakes &
suffer in insufferable ways
For un-numberable days
With an indecipherable gaze
Seeing unimaginable things
Yet appearing calm & deranged

Staple gun a watermelon up on a stop sign
A peace sign, a paper tiger predator for the
Beef rind, keep mine, & keep twenty cents in a bag
Keep saving up for something to brag about

I am fine but I’ve got a lot on my mind &
I’ve got a little of time, I’ve got a litter of rhymes
Ate dates & chicken pot pies

Diamonds in the shower
You would not believe,
The water pressure is wonderful.

Joking, bro
Pokie-do
Got your nose!
Got nothing to show
But some demoes &
some notebooks full
but I’ve still got my soul
because I give it a go
& though the going is slow
I keep it going.
Oh.
Track Name: Tender Bravado pt.2 - Yufu
You see, I was not the first to die. I was not the first to feel my essence as it pulsates through time & space at an accelerated rate to escape the vessel now set to bake for no breath will pass or carry in it’s wake. I can see now how we were all right & the prize for our little life is an infinite dance of love & light as every particle divides through the plains of realities to a new life to a now life & every life is your life is my life is our life & the best possible life in an infinite series of possible life exploring every avenue of strife & love & hate & calm & rage & of course smiles & cheer & broken hearts & togetherness. We all want to pin it on something because we crave correctness, but when we scream our prayers to the heavens to cast down the wretchedness we’ll only ever get a text back:
“new number who dis”