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poems by odderotter (adam odter)
beats by if i look strong; you look strong (noah michael)

Live show: odter mics & noah drums w/phat beets


released December 10, 2015



all rights reserved


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: Thirsty
Are you hungry, or is it show, dude? You want a harvest to reap, you've got to sow, dude. You want to play it for keeps, then you bet it all. Pull up your socks and try to follow me.

Oh you thought it would be easier, hu? Thought they'd believe in you, hu? Thought they'd all love you like Ma (but with oral sex)? The story of your life is Push by Sapphire because what you are is fucking precious.

An anomalous phenomena drawing prawns to the grill. Spare or kill? Fuck it; shove your dick in the gills. The screams are sexier when they're stifled through the pillow (shrill enough to rouse the neighbours, not enough to make me spill, though.)

I'm stirring up shit fondue so get your skewers set and get in the queue until it comes to you. You're just a peasant trying to step to my wonderland, but I’m up here on my toadstool like "Who are you?"

Are you thirsty? You're salivating, kid. You're the desert of wondering where oasis is. While you're chasing it, I’m Algernoning it, but I am yawning still because it sounds like dicks that you've been trying to drill into my eardrums daily. I'm taking pills but, frankly, I’m getting shaky.

Wakie-bakie and set the pan to the cakies. Tell your man I’m going to bate to him daily because I’m the tall dark figure always in the corner of your vision. Holler my name if you can feel me and listen for the call and response echoing forth from the distance and a futile-ish pulse burrowed deep inside of your ribcage.

I am the son of the red earth.
An ambassador of the dead space/ wet cold/ dry heat network

lingering hideously and increasingly grotesquely, the malignancy set in motion has a propensity to destroy me.
Track Name: Wallpaper in Hell
Sublime subliminal sublimation. Beta-max weapons for beta-buds and brilliant sheep. Trading blank stares for protective masks and 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 and 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 and 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 and 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 and knife. All of the devils and worshippers are taking the same flight. Life is a bitter bitch. I want your slice, so summon up Pazuzu for the 'no dice' and 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 and with this slit
I seal your fate along with it
into the flame
into Beelzebub's eternal grip
Track Name: Thumbs Up!
Abominable vomiting despicable garbage, pardon the knowledge. I'm a sour tardis of bile and hardships or a pilot of ghastly ghost ships with bongs and spliffs running aground of your harbour and screaming fuck your little ships.

Psychosomatic bi-polar priceless semantics from a rotted molar. Gentile pampers will be prized from this point forward. Also, rabble-rousing rib-ticklers. Give me more! Halitosis grosser than you could cope with, and the same success present now as I was born with. Not that I’m deserving of, nor that it's particularly alluring, and not that I’m insinuating that I need more… I guess that I’m just spewing. Speculating timidly into the orb and waiting patiently. Pacing as if the future belongs to me, if only briefly, and I can hold it and I can touch it and I can squeeze it if it allows me. But instead it often surrounds me. Claustrophobically. Mocking me.

Pacifism is an algorithm for rhythmic living predetermined by the cosmic pace. Shooting off thoughts like rockets into space while matching gate to the stride of fate. We proselytize our space in time as ace, but the shapeless mass is really a nest egg for mistake.

Or a Monte Cristo counting on the disco and selling out seats for the "best hands-down" show. Loosening the tempo, lubricating whistles, and preacher-believable babbling, "brother, you're going to get yours."

But when he gives it to the kinfolk, he's rubber-stamping on the will prose. Will he or won't he? Brother, we're never going to know until he shows up in a selfie with an automatic weapon.

Cross swords with a graceful tact and double back when the stars attack. Turn a quarter to a dime in a snap, and pick another ounce to be ashes fast. Here's a little treat for your ears to snack. Hit record and rewind it back. We brought what we know you lack and I know I look strong on the odter track.

Thumbs up for the flashback, dude, grow a stache out to match that tude! Kick hard like the ballad of a kick drum and kick a little harder if they're bleeding from their eardrums. You'd better watch how you act; we've got smiles up front but a whyle in the back. We can hang like a rope, and blow cabbage in the car if you want to. I'm living on beans this month, but I'm not complaining much. I don't really need much, but it's everywhere around me so I guess it kind of sucks.

Music is a village and not an item and this is where we're presently residing. Techno warriors from the future living on the rough side of the mountain because that's what it takes to learn if you can even climb it. I'm a demigod of half-way thoughts and I’m a double faced bitch with a broken jaw and I’m screaming hit me harder and I’m getting regretfully nada and I’m pulling out hair and shit and I’m stuffing my gullet like it's empanadas.
Track Name: Sissy Fuss
I'm going to peace now.
Slow, no trouble.

Buddy, you could row a boat as a bass- no treble- and settle subtle indiscretions with a grace indescribable by mammalian mouth muscles or any other oracles. You're allegedly legendarily useful, but it's a shame when it only helps you, dude. You're a sprain on the wrist of the hand that you kiss because you only exist for it to shovel you food while you shit and piss copper, credit, and debt. Proper limit met. Suffer, simmer, set, muffle. More yet? OK, but I’m tired.
I'm not opposed to work but aren't you all as sick as me of being devoured and conspired against? Meanwhile, we march the picket fence.

Entrenched in this money/ power/ fame shit.
This all-gain-no-blame shit.
All of these public losses and private profits and
Marginalized public for profit margins.

We are Sisyphus of the bean pile with the sanctuary in front, but the thief behind. If we go on we can make it to the palace gates, but if we sleep we die. Although if the sleep is too sweet then perhaps it's better to lie down then.

"I am not a wage slave, I am not a wage slave,"
I will not repeat six words into the grave.
I will not bow down nice for a treat and a head pat ready to behave.

Mistake shakes from your jowls and shanks; give thanks for the world we've made. We've come a long way on the backs of others and it's time to start looking to change

When we embrace obscenity, and we push polarity, and we skew morality for our own knuckle-dusting. It doesn't matter how much money you've got when they can decide your money is worth nothing.