by OdderOtter

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released December 20, 2014




OdderOtter Calgary, Alberta

The otter makes songs and then you probably listened to them if you are here or else you probably go to 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: Grave Fuzz
I am a vengeful god of sloth, bones, and bating and I will swallow the sun to chill the young for later. He reps a Jesus piece and ten knuckles of sheets because he's a marvel to speech by the way he's licking a beat. Meanwhile, I’m just a stick bug with peanut-butter-jellies on my mandibles, with a lunch bag filled with ants on a log, toot-toots, and a lunchable. I'm a full-of-wishbones light-sabre swinging animal, a slice-to-the-gut-until-your-blood-stops cannibal gnashing my teeth with a corned beef tongue crazy. My blood shoot eyes fade hazy and lazy. My groceries are liquorice, water, and weed mostly. All praise be to he who could achieve this coasting.

I am a tweeter deleter among amenity appeasers with a quarter-bag and paraphernalia in my sneakers. Alright, it's a nickel d'd up because I’m a teacup from the feet up. I'm an inanimate animal cuddling man-child fuck up, a self-emulating simian singleton with a lion's grip on a kettle of vultures. I'm repping a level of culture and meddling ever at the palpable profit because it's harder to spend it once your heart has stopped, Richie Rich. They're resenting your presence so they're all presenting rabid in response to all of your pop-culture references. Mans laughter or manslaughter? God's son or Man's daughter? Welcome to the silliness syllabus of the Otter.
Sticks up, we waited. We were elated with our breaths bated to be wasted with dreams of parables pirouetting on Venus. We were whomping the willows and doing hood-rat shit with the waterfowl, then we were strapping in the Odderott because the colours are shifting now. I cue up the cornea to the immediate flooding in every parcel of vitreous humour from here to retina. Interpreting impulses are indiscriminately shitting their pants about an overdose of visual stimuli.

Zoom zoom and I’m speeding and my vision starts weaving and I’m foaming at the mouth like I’m bonanza jellybean while I’m weeping and I’m seeing how the universe is bigger than we can fathom and everything we know is an atom inside of an atom inside of an atom. We're protoplasm with a suicide/death wish dragging every bleeding platypus to the depths of the sea with us. If we can see the patterns and our wits are diligent then we can understand the importance of doing something significant with our lives.

So I curl my fingers around the neck of a bumble bee and I try to scribble some scrawl to discreetly seal the memory before I slip into the plume and I give into the mystery of the whatever beyond and it's elusion through history. For example, all of the omnipotent critics critiquing our adequately intricate sentences and penmanship from their lexicon of samples with their existential accuracy dependent on jealousy or mockery or any other icky thing that you can think up. There are ivory and black Faberge eggs on attack! Brutal noodles jack! Hot chicks and literary hacks until I snap back to Zack and Taco (Taco is actually a Taylor. Not a tailor. Also, not present, presently. He's opening presents that we presented him with: disappointed messages and condolences while hoping hope-against-hope that we could pick up more lids.)

Throw up.

Holy fuck.

Now, what was I saying?

I think these technical errors are due to magick of a Wiccan persuasion.

It comes on like a head-rush tugging at my skin like elastic underbrush, but I feel it turn to dust while I snuggle myself right up in the pulse and see the puggles suckle the nipples of the crux of evidently absent snuff from the box I keep in a cabinet. I am not having it, but I’m certainly on it. The world dissolves to onyx carved into paths that I’m apparently wandering endlessly. And what do I do about it, you may ask? I doo doo doo doo jub-jubs up under the carpet, but at least it's honest and I’m glad that I’m a part of it because the city's Achilles is uniformity firstly. The echoed thralls of remorse label this verse with adversity. I'm giggling silly but still my palms are sweaty. If you're fucking with psychedelics then you'd better be ready for taking the intimate morals with sodium morsels while holding the horses of nitty-gritty purporting bubonic rituals. My mouth flaps up to my nostrils while I babble out nonsense and everything around my is alive and reverent.
Track Name: Wealth & Hellness
I can't eat and I can't read and/or write sixteen bars on a sheets, the black sheep struggling not to weep. Is any of this shit even deep? Fuck. This shit feels weaker than the Otter spitting over a two-week-no-sleep beat for a treat. I'm already relatively lit from this brain pressure shit since the moon dipped and I probably will be until twilight, so I’ve got to deal with it while I’m staring down sick-look peddling dick-suck veterans, and beautiful heroines with my teeth gleaming up to the sky like I’m in love.

Strange days.

Now I’m feeling an inkling of Guillain-Barre syndrome. Lyric/guitar and I not do them. Not do work. No call friends. Kill time or self? Welp, I've got to meet an end, but what then? Be the last to ascend as a promissory predatory pupil of the hive-mind-men? With a weapon of willingness, intuition to deplore it, and ability to rat-at-at-at-at it if ignored. If the rat attacks are regular, rhetoric is the messenger. Aloof is no excuse if the castle is the defender. An offender found offensive is reason to put a fence around the fencing club perimeter.

No scripture. No false idols. Give them a tape with a fistful of NyQuils. Tell them to their face, "This shit is your bible. Call me when it syncs up with your cycle. Thank you."
Track Name: Super Junior
I've got a whole barrel full of chimpans strapped to my back with elastic waistbands, some snatched yak-bak stash plans, and a melody, a gift, with a cash money advance. So I’m gonna let them dance and put the kids in a trance. All of my buddies in the back, jazz fingers to the boombats. Can I get a little louder on the back track? Check that!

Put it on your playlist, play it in your basement, hear it in the club while you're basing cocaine. Fair warning: There's no fair treatment and no means no until the walls start breathing, kid. He eats a titty like he's teething, he's a shark grinning all he's got for the treat while he's licking his lips like he hasn't been eating, because hats aren't staples, if you catch my meaning. You can also catch my fist, or swallow my spit with a little bit of tongue. Fuck, I don't want to pick. I guess you can metaphorically suck my dick or you can literally eat my shit while I frost my tips and I twist my tits and I sulk in the back with the whine and the cheeze-itz. I never let a knuckle trade a tooth for a Beemer, fistfights only if I actually mean it.

I've got a whole pocket full of snacks that I tend to attack on the reg until I decimate their ranks with filed fangs. There's no hope to promote their growth, I smoke bones with the fervor of a mad max surgeon. Hand to their heart with a lip to their ear saying, "it's not working..."
Man, I'm gonna take a break if you're twerking and I’m gonna take a steak with a knife and a fork to it.

Track Name: What Able Learned
While stuffing his skinnies into chinos, his sticky toes grip squealing, "Fuck no we won't go, we will not grow up inch by inch just to die feet by feet until our whole six sweet feet are buried six sweet feet deep!"
A fleet of buttery beats is flooding over me and showing me the flow and ebbing to the ribbons hidden inside of me, but I’m not some divinity pickling in a better bitter brine. Your eyes are a window to your soul, as your mouth is a window to your mind. You're so beautiful that the reaper bides his time until your sweet feet are buried six sweet feet deep.

I take care of you, you take care of me.
You're not responsible for everything.
I makes a me, but you makes us a we.
We are all responsible for everything.

They say that you can't give more than you take, but if you take these words then you can bake them a cake and split of as many slices as it takes to fill the hearts of everyone in this place. With a happy face, grace, and solidarity, despite your mistakes, you've got time. Fuck up and laugh, and take a chance on a dream. Be "The I-Team"
You're on my team if you want a clear mind instead of a widescreen and you're taking time to consider the consequences of your schemes. Play the dream in your sleeve. Pull it out and place it on the table for the world to see. You've got a couple aces and it's easy.

I'm telling you, no one throws a rock at a baron tree. You'd better drop those leaves like a disease. Disguised impurity is a peril of narrow minded fellows. I'm not starting a fight with a sinister tongue and a dexterous knife to cut out the bits that I don't like until there's nothing left of me that is right. Now I’m an out of sight light bright homie with a new tight set of chromies on the wheels of his dirt bike doing wheelies in the parking lot of best buy. Give it your best try, do it to death. I guess that I digress.

I wish you the best, young padawan.

God bless.