samlad konstnärlig gärning
Lars sjöng.
Do you think
you can impress me
with empty words,
shouted out, shouted out loudly?
You just sink.
Just sink unlike
the flying birds,
which still remain, remain proud.
You, you, you used to lie.
I, I, identify
your useless lies again.
Another you,
amazing and new,
not the least true,
but better than, better than the crowd.
It’s nothing personal.
It’s just a total loss of memory.
A minor attack of lack of sense.
The headache in the morning is very intense.
I forgot the words of serenity.
A stroke of serious senility.
I forgot a lot indeed,
but nevertheless my mind do succeed
in remembering some small fragments
– a deeper feeling of embarrassment.
The afterwars and doors to hell
and the colour of my breathing together tell
me to change my way of living,
but first take something that is soothing.
Why do I lose my head,
just because I’ve lost my mind?
I’m lost in my mind. I’m one of the kind
that gets involved in endless discussions with myself about the
weather or whether I shall or not eat lunch with my thoughts that I
keep saved in a plastic bag on 3.5″ diskettes. It’s a bunch of bits,
which fits in my head, but I can’t possibly think that I have
thought all this magnetic stuff and after some consideration I don’t
think bytes taste good doesn’t even bite through the blue shell
which protects it from dust and unidentified flying objects from the
yellow moon.
Synthpop med fotbollsrefräng. Lars sjöng.
One autumn day all went wrong.
I realised I couldn’t long.
’cause when you walked away from me,
you took away my liberty.
Oh, no! emptiness!
So I sit here and wait,
hoping that it’s not too late.
I need someone in your place,
somebody to fill the space.
But if you come back again
it will never be the same.
There have fallen too much rain
since last I said your name.
It will only end up in pain.
Intended accidents
Släng ihop lösryckta fraser, samplingar och tuffa ljud. Resulatet blir musikalisk pytt-i-panna, denna gång på tyska.
Traumen sie nicht von weibliche Körper?
Traumen sie nicht von sinden im Schnee?
Schön wie die Sonnenlicht sind wir nicht, aber riesengross.
Wir sind nicht so klein. Nein!
Noch ein Projekt mit Farbe-prospekt.
Ein vollwerdiger Lautsprecherprodukt.
Nicht rauschenfrei, kein Bierpartei,
ein Plastikbeutel mit schlechter Lukt.
Noch ein Schinkenbratkartoffelprojekt.
Unter dem gelben Mohn, mein kleiner Sohn,
kann man mit Schwierigkeiten die Sonne
sich vorstellen, sei nicht so schnellen!
Werfen uns nicht in die Mülltonne.
Kjells mekanische Werkstatt.
Lars sjöng.
I see cars pass by.
Buy a life they say.
Save a moment for every tear.
Tear it apart to fractions of seconds.
On a road to nowhere
you will take me
away to the light.
I see scars, but why?
Why is no good to ask.
Tasks that are beyond our sense.
Senseless to me, too mean to the others.
In the stars our fate.
Fatal tales they say.
Salesmen profit on our tiny hope.
I hope instead for the moon, the yellow.
On a road to nowhere
I will take you
away from the light.
On a road to nowhere you will take me away.
Lars sjöng.
Neural works
for feudal reasons.
I calculate your chance to survive.
I think you’d better run.
Virtual earth
on virtual grounds.
I’m your plastic boy, your cyber-toy,
but not so well-developed.
It’s my fate to be a three state mind.
One – I’m on.
Two – I’m off.
Three – I am disconnected.
I want you
to be here, mine.
I like your legs and I’m ready.
I am ready for a redesign.
Synopsis
based on synapses.
Stochastic synapses is my fantasies
so give me another randomiser.
I fear that the digital sound
has come to seduce our ears,
but it makes no difference to me.
I’m immune to such perfume.
I suspect that I like defects.
It doesn’t matter if there are
sequences of disturbed oscillations
filled with dirty frequencies.
Biological noise reduction – unlogical joy.
My Dolby-disease conspires with
my built in audio-converter.
They change the sounds a million times
and turn them into perfection.
Unproduced ideals are better than well-shaped nothing.
You sold your soul to buy a life
without displeasing surprises.
It meant you had to dismiss
an important piece of mind.
I presume you scream
when you consume my dreams.
I resume my day
in a different way.
I welcome you into my head,
but I’m quite sure you won’t like it.
My thoughts are rather unkind
to people with you kind of mind.
My words and actions are perhaps
not always well-considered,
but they are products of me,
marked with made in memoryland.
You may copy my thoughts,
you can take them with you,
but they can never be bought.