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Letters From The Lookout

by Katcheen Tongues

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A Shooting Between 4th and 5th Young wannabes flipping a trashed sofa back over for a photo-backdrop pose outside my apartment, hoping to add the sleaze they so desperately, selfishly, need for their sound-snap-twinder profile-picsta-story. The model displays himself atop the back supporter as if he’s at home with the homeless, who most likely waddled away with the orange couch cushions a night or so ago. The photographer, with her phone, crouches down in the gutter copying moves she’s seen in viral videos or cheap montages in Hollywood movies. Her fingers aggressively tap the camera screen, shooting pics as fast as trigger fingers drop shells, as if fearful a parking-starved commuter will take her out, knees first, and park his gas-guzzling shit-box on top of her just so he can scurry back up on home and scratch that beer- itch that’s gnawed at the back of his aching nine-to-five neck since nine o’ five A.M. that very morning. When the duo used up the whole scene, copying every display from various rap record covers, they slink away together, shoulder to shoulder to check their score and leave behind the tattered old sofa like a cheap over the hill hooker in her dingy hotel room. As my attention begins to wander from my window I imagine the sight of its original owner clambering out their apartment to the orphaned hunk of furniture, calling out to the photogenic degenerates claiming ownership and some form of compensation.
Take A Breath There are those that boast they can peek over the peaks of mountains, predict the changing coast, and see behind the scenes that slumber beneath the blinding man-made mists. Those regurgitating the routines like overflowing fountains slurping up the scum back into the old machines. Here they come to claim the world. Opening their purses, rattling their pearls. Quietly snatching all and every attention. Spinning cheap words to hypnotic gold from beyond the facade the puppeteers have produced. Those faithless false prophets, upon their platforms for their own profit. But I guess, I’ll just take a breath. You should not ask what the dollar can do for you, but what did you do for the dollar? Cause Cain paid a price and Abel got off easy. For death is precise while life is pretty hazy. Masses forgetting even the divine can live inside empty pockets. Desperate women, Desperate men, fighting tooth and nail at turned tables, watching sadly as billards clack, smack, crash, goodbye cash! Watching the win rolling with the lopsided where Suits and Ties with crooked smiles wait impatiently beaming with palms out and open, preaching greed gospels like, ‘Well too bad! ‘If you can get it, take it, if you got it, add!’ But I guess, I’ll just take a breath. Making mantras from mementos the psalms of fake philanthropists are illustrated in ink upon the thin-skin few, covering up their character with every spouted slogan, just as soon surprised they all come to find that what they’ve internalized from their influencers now leaves scars upon their hearts and minds. Blinded, the Lost clamber, clapping against dust riddled floorboards with hands waving wild and unsure, as thoughts move across winding walkways soaked in the venom of double-cross. Met with regret, anger takes a step forth, disgust too of course, Some with stones and nails held hand-in-hand they stand prepared to judge their new kings. they have not yet fully understood. These players do not HAVE to dictate their dialogue. Nor direct our plays. Each are given the same blank script as the rest of us extras. But I guess, I’ll just take a breath.
Stained Glass I used to make stories from stained glass. Constructing characters from the colors I made worlds from the light and universes from the shadows while sitting, rather fitting, in the house of God. I used to make stories from stained glass and overflow numberless lifeless pages, but recently these narratives have run dry as if I emptied my glass, bar-side, without another dollar or tale to tell. I used to make stories from stained glass now the landscapes don’t form anymore since realities have infected my dreams and de-construct the building blocks I stacked during my younger days. I used to make stories from stained glass so one can understand when I wonder if this will ever start to pass, this dark cloud ever growing over from this day till my last. I used to make stories from stained glass but still I envision those intricate shapes that once populated my imagination; peering, striving, to see something again so to never forget who I was once then. I used to make stories from stained glass.


Katcheen Tongues' second EP "Letters From The Lookout" further experiments with the fusion of abstract poetry with a variety of instrumentation, this time including producer and musician Alex Ervin (Sleep Index and bottomshelf) to help form this lofi specific project.


released October 14, 2022

Word - Chuck Harp (www.chuckharp.com)
Production/Instrumentation - Alex Ervin
Instrumentation - Jon Carlucci
Cover Art - Chuck Harp

Produced by Katcheen Tongues


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Katcheen Tongues Los Angeles, California

Katcheen Tongues is a Philly/L.A. based art collective focused on fusing music and observational rhythmic poetry, wading in the waters of avant-folk and lofi psychedelia.

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