Ripping The Screen

A retrowave rebellion in green fire and static. The Emerald Queen stands before the neon tower of KBN, peeling back the black lamination of illusion — smiling as she tears through the broadcast veil. This is the sound of truth clawing its way out of the feed. Alternative rock meets chant, plasma eyes meet pixel decay. The price of truth keeps climbing with inflation — but she’s not buying what they’re selling anymore. #EmeraldQueen #RippingTheScreen #Retrowave #AlternativeRock lyrics: peel back the corner of my television see the grid laid over the lies truth subjugated in its own demise a playing field for those who think they’re gods order of stealth, hoarder of wealth sitting on the other side of the desk staring straight into our eyes camera lens of surprise trying to gain a rise a raise in pay, laying waste to the pain of a nation governmental centralization erasing headlines, bylines, stations public broadcasting traded for corporate obligation product placement specifications coffee for the newscaster, coke for the talking head rambling on about existential dread as if my emotions aren’t already dead flip the channel, tune into low brow junk instead laugh tracks telling me when to clap commercials demanding i buy into that cut the cord, keep the core i’m not buying what they’re selling anymore every channel is a chore every anchor is a war but i’m wired for the wild for the raw, for the roar for the truth that slips through the static on the floor bending rabbit ears, picking up new signals wider bands of wit, kick drums and wine it happens all the time a journey into my mind, battle drawn lines truth divided into dime bags of deceit drugs for the elite mass‑consumption radio’s dreaded sounds neat little segments of hate filled speech cut the cord, keep the core i’m not buying what they’re selling anymore every channel is a chore every anchor is a war but i’m wired for the wild for the raw, for the roar for the truth that slips through the static on the floor pod casts by patron saints of woe telling me it’s safer if i go straight to hell than stand on a stage built for girls who look like heroin dealer dreams and boys built like bipedal poles of tortured pride never wanted a bride, just to be calm inside no anxiety, no regret, no more mother knows best they hit the airwaves with their disdain diluted grace, tainted with distaste infecting the frequencies with rage cut the cord, keep the core i’m not buying what they’re selling anymore every channel is a chore every anchor is a war but i’m wired for the wild for the raw, for the roar for the truth that slips through the static on the floor when the signal thins, i hear the sin beneath the spin static patterns forming a wail you, the consumer, up for sale watch the trauma of a life in peril the girl trapped in a well the army captain who fell i see it all in daytime shine sunlight burning an over exposed frame a documentation of pain i rip off the black screen of disfigurement searching for the real, the honest, the true i need something other than regurgitated cable news i want the story, the hidden glory of people who bleed to keep another from going under this is no game of telephone context is my true stimulation not the false adrenaline of green screen news scenes blackhawk down and a newborn baby in a trash bin behind the house of the people like jesus waiting for his steeple cut the cord, keep the core i’m not buying what they’re selling anymore every channel is a chore every anchor is a war but i’m wired for the wild for the raw, for the roar for the truth that slips through the static on the floor i can’t take it anymore this endless cycle of disinformation segregating me from honest communal formation the price of truth keeps climbing with inflation and i’m left paying for a world that sold its own foundation