Rhymesayers Entertainment's video: Aesop Rock - Button Masher Official Audio

LISTEN / BUY HERE: https://rse.lnk.to/SpiritWorldFieldGuide VINYL / CD / MERCH: https://AesopRock.com SUBSCRIBE FOR MORE: https://bit.ly/RhymesayersYT FOR MORE ON AESOP ROCK: https://aesoprock.com https://rhymesayers.com/artists/aesoprock http://www.facebook.com/aesoprockwins http://www.instagram.com/aesoprockwins http://twitter.com/aesoprockwins Song Credits: Written & Produced By Aesop Rock Additional Instrumentation: Hanni El Khatib Lyrics: Mash the buttons, knock knock, never yield, phobias in motion, blowing smoke into the sterile field, Wonkavator up beyond the seraphim, terra beneath the keratin, every bit precariously jerry-rigged, his helmet is a case of Bud, he factor in the paper cuts, corrugated cockpit, I’m not exactly Major Tom, Buzzed Aldrin, I can’t count backwards, 10, 1, someone get this buzzard to the Matmos, 10,000 hours addressing open beaks, exiting the atmosphere with no green to chroma key, greebles on the body, tin cans on the bumper, slip into the freezing ether like a pea coat from his mother, how much interstellar freedom can he reasonably suffer, more than you can feed through a shutter, I use a phony voice when I’m yelling “nobody’s home”, Im a liar but I wouldn’t say I’m wrong I ain’t really seen land in a minute, AWOL spaceman, wave to the Mrs., faint transmission after nothing for the summer, I have never seen so many colors The human-heart tattoo, move in a hard vacuum, only back to pay a bill and maybe fill a cart with cat food, I’m shredded, smelling like I just stepped off a charred capsule, I did, that’s not imaginary ash in his wig, that’s rounding Cygnus with a souvenir from Galaxy Quest, I know it sound like myth and magic but the shrapnel commits, I give a fuck about a factory scent, we mostly play to the fringe, they figure what’s a little tape on the wings? A little glue, a little paint, a little staple and string, you won’t believe how far the garbage when that radio ping, behold a view or two where you could lose your voice at the moon, I hope you like your beef and veggies with the moisture removed, dig it the, low rider, lower the gold visor, nose dive, guided by the ghost of Laika, my heavens, slow drive, side-eye stealthy, when can we expect you? Why would you expect me? Tangentially related, In the sense of one’s environment informing what they’re made of, there was a ghost who broke it all up into tiny numbers, and dated vector graphics, and New York Times puzzles, who struggled knowing love as more than boring data entry, more reported from an orbit all his own, to say it gently, I’m reporting from an orbit all my own, to say it gently, catch a wave in the jalopy down to burn-up on re-entry, man the laser, do you copy, keep invaders on the business end, autopilot zeroes in on zero wind for pissing in, fixer-upper, she putt like a Plymouth Duster, from bucket to mothership if you’re up for a little sunburn, stat, neighbors at the mercy of a thin wall, one side nap, one satellite pinball, fun size, asteroids pinging off the cabin, ping! ping! The sound track of shrinking into blackness, I blink through 4D, droid sitting bitch, scorned, the voice of destroy and rebuild, who rose above the partly-cloudy counting on a Galaga hack, his only carry-on’s a napkin of math, from packed in the menagerie to cheese and crackers at the apogee, add a little finding god, and trying not to atrophy, um, I know you’re whispering about me at corner store, “We’ve seen a glowing light from under his apartment door… “