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lirik lagu will wood - the black box warrior vs. the pants (the bitter end nyc)

[spoken]
in joan didion’s 1968 book of essays “slouching towards bethlehem,” the author cites w.b. yeats poem describing the vision of the second coming as the apocalyptic arrival of a sphinx~like, quote, “rough beast, it’s hour come ’round at last slouching towards bethlehem to be born.”
she uses this to describe her anxiety towards the psychedelic movement, and the grief of cultural change, and the increasing effects of mass media on society
in the prеface, didion states, “i had been paralyzed by thе conviction that writing was an irrelevant act, that the world as i understood it no longer existed, and if i were ever to be able to work again, it would be necessary for me to come to terms with disorder.”

[piano interlude]

[verse 1]
well, he collapsed with stevens~johnson syndrome on the er floor
panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic
well, the way he spun his b~tterfly risked all six his phalanges
roman candles at both ends in his synapses
and the method with which he recycled his humors
trojan horse’d his blood~brain barrier and raised the ld50, yes, yes
and through flight~or~fight revelation shame, the black box warrior
he skipped this town and headed straight down history

[pre~chorus]
shields himself from reason in a kevlar baby~blue tuxedo
quilted from the finest fibers, flesh and fiberglass and flowers
ego a mosquito, evil incarnate/good incognito
pops placebos for libido, screaming “bless the torpedoes”

[chorus]
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
if it was gonna k!ll you, boy, it would have by now
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
there’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down
[verse 2]
well, he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and wrapped a poison ivy noose
around his lotus jugular when they came
well, they found him with a map to every victim of his love
and a tattoo of a blue jay on his face
and they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flatline cry
a hymn out in hungarian harmonic
but he c~cked his noggin, through his stoma sang, “for auld lang syne
happy birthday to the succulents, i’ll die your hydroponics”

[pre~chorus]
his rib cage was a h~rnet’s nest, palpitations set the beat
his vagus nerve a turk’s head knot, an axle hitch, a carrick bend
he wondered if christ~consciousness would charge a cancellation fee
auf wiedersehen, au revoir, he gripped his wits right by their ends

[piano interlude]

[spoken]
autumn of 2022
i find myself pulling up to an invite~only hippie festival in the mountains outside bethlehem, pa in a black mustang, which is the car that makes it seem like i’m trying to compensate for a lack of masculinity that i otherwise feel like i wear pretty well and my friends call it “the batmobile,” which hurts my feelings a little
and i step out of my black car in my black coat and i’m immediately surrounded by tie~dye, and paper lanterns, and flowers!
and i’m not properly dressed for the revolution
and my trippy friend who invited me, he comes up to me, and he greets me in that very special, very loving way that only the furthest out of hippies can pull off, you know?
he says, “will, thank you so much for bringing your light!”
and i made some joke about how like, “well actually i think i brought a little too much darkness with me instead, man.”
and he says, in response, in the most loving and terrifying way imaginable, “yeah, man! you embody the darkness!”
the last thing you want is to have somebody on the peak of a spiritual experience tell you that you embody darkness
he shows me around the campgrounds, and we’re surrounded by countless beautiful, perfect ~ albeit stinky ~ people dancing, and painting, and loving, and simply celebrating the joy of being alive
and at the center of it all is this enormous bonfire, some eight~feet~tall, that’s set to be lit around nightfall
and i attempt to spend the next few hours socializing, but that’s not something i’m good at even when i’m not a year~and~a~half into a f~cking two~year~long identity crisis and “embodying darkness.”
and when nighttime comes, it brings with it the ~ i would guess roughly~sixty~pound bag of psilocybin mushrooms
and i must have said “f~ck it?”
cause the next thing i know, my senses are all mixed up, like, i can hear colors, especially the really salty ones
and the music looks ridiculous, which of course tastes awful, and i’m ticklish, so that stinks!
and i am wandering uninvited, unwelcome, and unexpected through strangers’ campsites in the dark like i’m the ghost of the boy who drowned here twenty years ago today
each step through this dark, muddy wood taking on yet another layer upon layer upon layer of this ever~blooming ever~tesselating tie~dye spiral fractal of personal meaning, and
paper lanterns hanging in the dark were painting these incredible monets of all the quietest thoughts that i’d ever had and had never before been able to hear over all the noise inside my head
i’m not crying, okay?
i’m batman
and i eventually stumble back upon the bonfire
and there’s my trippy friend already waiting for me, and he says
“will! thank you so much for bringing your darkness! you almost missed the pants!”
and countless people have gathered around the bonfire by now, all to sp~ce out to the flames or whatever, and over the hours the wood in it has crumbled into a shape that vaguely resembles a standing pair of disembodied legs
and they’re all giggling and murmuring, “the pants, the pants~” they love the f~cking pants
and then i look at the pants…
pants… on fire
liar!
liar!
liar, liar, pants on fire!
i’m living a lie, and a liar’s pants must burn!
and so i dash towards the bonfire, and with one fell swoop of my embodied darkness, kick the pants over, sending sparks up into the air and pants~worshipping hippies into a panic, and they all shout
“no, will! the pants!”
and i say, “i’m sorry, i have to change my life!”
[verse 3]
a bl~~dy knife to split your infrastructure, wine to rev your motor function
coital machinations of the dead
well, you mainline your animus, karate chop your abacus
and learn to be an animal instead
but i never did think you better than this, your modus operandi
causes n~z~/skoptzyism and suicide
why to thine own self be true when it is you who are the problem
not the things you do, but something sick inside
lithium and dialectics, boy, you really is defective
cbt don’t seem effective for that cl~ster b, accept it
offer up your innocence, please ignore the side effects
you’ve lost your mind and almost lost your life before, so you’ll be fine

[chorus]
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
if it was gonna k!ll you, boy, it would have by now
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
there’s no more looking back
and why would you want to look back?
i mean, it’s no good looking back
so try to look forward now
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
if they were gonna get you, boy, they would have by now
for what? for what? for what it’s worth
there’s no more looking back, it’s looking up or looking down

- lirik lagu will wood

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