Marla Singer

Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies, lies. Stop lying to me already.
There’s a chair in my head
On which I used to sit
Took a pencil and I wrote
The following on it


Marla – Dust Bros.
The song starts placidly enough. It sorts of plods, methodically. Then there’s a charge, which slowly increases its voltage. It quietly crawls under your skin, makes it crawl ever so little. It plods on again but there are shapes of squares in it now. You can see the lines moving up and down and squares increasing and decreasing in size. Then it unexpectedly explodes into this feline noise which is a finger clawing its own hand and having an orgasm doing it. It stops. Makes blue and white squares. More solid electricity, sparks. It tangibly picks up your threads and starts undoing them. With slow measured movements. It breaks into what sounds like salvation. But then a catch is involved. Softly at first. It increases tempo. In your head salvation seems to be slipping away and it feels like you’re in trouble. Things are going wrong and will go wrong. It presses down from all four sides. And then Marla leaves.
Marla- the cut on the roof of your mouth that you can’t stop tonguing.