The Kelly Constant

Red Dust Siren

Last Split Second

Red Dust Siren

alternative metal, technical metal, post-hardcore

+ Show full styles

[Verse 1 — restrained baritone, uneasy clean guitar]
I had a functioning vocabulary.
I had thoughts that made some sense.
I could enter conversations
without losing my defense.
Then somebody said your name once.
Now the room is leaning left.
There's a fucking dial tone in my head
where my dignity was kept.
I don't know you.
That's important.
I am fully fucking aware.
But apparently my nervous system
doesn't particularly care.
[Instrumental — crooked bass groove; guitars begin slipping out of meter]
[Verse 2 — clipped cadence, increasingly unstable]
There's probably a science.
There's probably a chart.
Some unfortunate bastard
could take my skull apart.
Measure every firing neuron.
Circle where the trouble starts.
Then write:
SUBJECT SAW MINKA KELLY.
SUBJECT'S BRAIN DEPARTED HEART.
No, that doesn't rhyme right.
Fuck it.
Neither do my thoughts tonight.
You could put ten thousand faces here—
I'd still know which one was right.
[Pre-Chorus — drums building beneath almost-spoken vocal]
This isn't love.
Don't make it sweet.
I don't know the woman.
We've never fucking met.
My brain just saw her face somewhere
and hasn't recovered yet.
[Chorus — enormous melodic RDS explosion]
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY HEAD?
WHY DID EVERY OTHER FACE JUST LEAVE?
THERE WERE BILLIONS OF PEOPLE FIVE MINUTES AGO—
NOW APPARENTLY THERE'S THREE.
One is you.
One might be you.
The third one's probably you again.
MINKA FUCKING KELLY—
WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY BRAIN?
[Instrumental — huge technical riff that keeps collapsing into silence]
[Verse 3 — dreamy, disoriented; beauty replacing aggression]
There's a hallway with no building.
There's a photograph downstairs.
There's a woman I've never spoken to
somehow fucking everywhere.
My television knows it.
My algorithm knows it too.
Every road inside my stupid head
keeps accidentally finding you.
Maybe beauty is geometry.
Maybe God got bored one night.
Maybe somebody moved one millimeter
and the whole damn thing went right.
Maybe none of that means anything.
Actually—
that sounds about right.
[Heavy turn — bass and guitars drop into crushing half-time]
[Bridge — baritone becoming increasingly exasperated]
I tried brunette.
Back to Minka.
Different eyes.
Back to Minka.
Blend two faces.
BACK TO MINKA.
Try again.
STILL FUCKING MINKA.
At this point I'm not attracted.
I'm conducting fucking research.
And every goddamn experiment
keeps returning—
HER.
[Massive instrumental break — polyrhythmic guitars, violent drums, then sudden beautiful suspended chords]
[Final Chorus — soaring, desperate, almost absurdly emotional]
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY HEAD?
WHY DID EVERY OTHER FACE JUST LEAVE?
I SWEAR THERE USED TO BE MORE WOMEN HERE—
I HAVE DOCUMENTARY EVIDENCE, I BELIEVE.
Maybe someday this will pass.
Maybe normal thoughts remain.
Until then there's one conclusion
written sideways through my brain:
Beauty isn't subjective.
[Dead stop]
Okay.
That's fucking stupid.
[Quiet guitar returns]
But explain the Kelly Constant
to my poor malfunctioning brain.

3013/7500

[Verse 1 — restrained baritone, uneasy clean guitar] I had a functioning vocabulary. I had thoughts that made some sense. I could enter conversations without losing my defense. Then somebody said your name once. Now the room is leaning left. There's a fucking dial tone in my head where my dignity was kept. I don't know you. That's important. I am fully fucking aware. But apparently my nervous system doesn't particularly care. [Instrumental — crooked bass groove; guitars begin slipping out of meter] [Verse 2 — clipped cadence, increasingly unstable] There's probably a science. There's probably a chart. Some unfortunate bastard could take my skull apart. Measure every firing neuron. Circle where the trouble starts. Then write: SUBJECT SAW MINKA KELLY. SUBJECT'S BRAIN DEPARTED HEART. No, that doesn't rhyme right. Fuck it. Neither do my thoughts tonight. You could put ten thousand faces here— I'd still know which one was right. [Pre-Chorus — drums building beneath almost-spoken vocal] This isn't love. Don't make it sweet. I don't know the woman. We've never fucking met. My brain just saw her face somewhere and hasn't recovered yet. [Chorus — enormous melodic RDS explosion] WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY HEAD? WHY DID EVERY OTHER FACE JUST LEAVE? THERE WERE BILLIONS OF PEOPLE FIVE MINUTES AGO— NOW APPARENTLY THERE'S THREE. One is you. One might be you. The third one's probably you again. MINKA FUCKING KELLY— WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO MY BRAIN? [Instrumental — huge technical riff that keeps collapsing into silence] [Verse 3 — dreamy, disoriented; beauty replacing aggression] There's a hallway with no building. There's a photograph downstairs. There's a woman I've never spoken to somehow fucking everywhere. My television knows it. My algorithm knows it too. Every road inside my stupid head keeps accidentally finding you. Maybe beauty is geometry. Maybe God got bored one night. Maybe somebody moved one millimeter and the whole damn thing went right. Maybe none of that means anything. Actually— that sounds about right. [Heavy turn — bass and guitars drop into crushing half-time] [Bridge — baritone becoming increasingly exasperated] I tried brunette. Back to Minka. Different eyes. Back to Minka. Blend two faces. BACK TO MINKA. Try again. STILL FUCKING MINKA. At this point I'm not attracted. I'm conducting fucking research. And every goddamn experiment keeps returning— HER. [Massive instrumental break — polyrhythmic guitars, violent drums, then sudden beautiful suspended chords] [Final Chorus — soaring, desperate, almost absurdly emotional] WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY HEAD? WHY DID EVERY OTHER FACE JUST LEAVE? I SWEAR THERE USED TO BE MORE WOMEN HERE— I HAVE DOCUMENTARY EVIDENCE, I BELIEVE. Maybe someday this will pass. Maybe normal thoughts remain. Until then there's one conclusion written sideways through my brain: Beauty isn't subjective. [Dead stop] Okay. That's fucking stupid. [Quiet guitar returns] But explain the Kelly Constant to my poor malfunctioning brain.

0/500