Impatient Pile of Bones

by Bottomfed

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about

A 3 song EP recorded at MGW audio and engineered/produced by Matt Withrow & Bottomfed. All songs are available for 'name your price' download and pre orders for the Vinyl/tape will be up shortly via Super Moon Records and Wolf Head Records!

Bottomfed is:
Ryan Meehan - Guitar/Vocals
Rob Carlson - Guitar/Vocals
Tom Cifello - Bass/Guitar
Nestor Matute - Drums

(Alec Doyle recorded drums on this album)

Pre order this EP on vinyl via Super Moon Records here!
supermoonrecords.bandcamp.com/album/impatient-pile-of-bones

"We are all waiting for a ride home,
I'm an impatient pile of bones."

credits

released 17 July 2015

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about

Bottomfed

4 piece hardcore punk from Buzzards Bay, MA. If you like what you hear, download our music for free and come to a show some time!

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Track Name: Pavement
Did they hand you the hatchet
when you crawled into the casket?
Drink up.
I've never won at this
we have nothing left to lose.
We don't make the rules.

As if life leaked out of my eyes,
onto the sidewalk.
I thought I saved myself,
I'm blind.
To the worth of this surface.
I am deaf to the voice of a salesman,
dead as the earth.

I'm not one to make a scene,
from what I saw I could not believe in anything.
I'm underneath the pavement
but it feels like ice.
I'm alive and you're just holding on.
Get a grip,
it's loosening and I can feel it.
This is your take on suffering.

Lord, set him free
from a kingdom he does not believe in.
When I found out they found you guilty
I swear that innocence was as present as belief.
Set him free.
I know nothing of control,
I am a blank heart under a tired soul.

Set him free.

We are all waiting for a ride home,
I'm an impatient pile of bones.

TC
Track Name: Cheap Machine
You'll never make ends meet until the fucking end.
There is no helping hand in ripping my heart from your chest.

You'll never make ends meet until you're fucking dead,
bury me deep and drop me with this lesson; blank.
Bury me inside your wounds.

I carved your name into my gravestone,
I traded my name for yours.
A signature is all you're worth.

A crooked spine investment underneath my swollen feet.
It's over your head,
I am not a cheap machine.

I don't mind if we don't make it out alive
as long as you don't make it home on time tonight.
Don't come home.

Where did we lose ourselves?
Where did we lose our touch?
Somewhere we aren't allowed,
somewhere we'll never be found.

Run and hide,
waste your time.
They're too high
when we are on the ground.
Wave goodbye.

Say your prayers but don't speak to loud.
Puncture a lung before you open your fucking mouth.

TC
Track Name: Chalkboard Symphony
What's the use of breathing if there are no notes to sing? What good are these hands if a song cannot be played? To be perfectly honest, I'd rip out my lungs if I knew no melody would ever be produced.

I am constantly mocked by the orchestral ambiance that plays on repeat. The twenty four - hour record revolution is beating at my window, it's screaming in my ears.

It says what's the matter son? Have you no thoughts in your head? Have you lost all your ambition? Has this strain left you dead?

Even now, it is crawling through my skull. Breaking and entering, locking the door. Throwing the key in the bottom of an empty cup. So I'll spend some nights pulling out teeth.

Blood boiling. Neck tightening. Gasping for air. All because I simply cannot leave this room. The knob turns loose and falls at my feet.

The whole world can go fucking rot. Burn your trees, your birds and your bees, they're of no use to me. Every beautiful song that they sing is a chalkboard symphony. It sends chills up my spine every time that I hear the rustling of the wind. And I'll spiral into a jealous rage if I hear those crashing waves.

What's the use of breathing if there are no notes to sing? And what good are these hands if they just won't fucking play? What's the use of breathing if a note won't be produced? And to be brutally honest, I have half a mind to just fucking stop. And to be honest, the whole world can go fucking burn. The whole world can burn. The whole world can rot. Keep your birds. Keep your trees. Keep your chalkboard symphonies. And I'll spiral into a jealous rage if I see those crashing waves.

RM