The Air is Full of Teeth
Surreal, quirky art-pop / new wave song in the style of art-pop, new wave and quirky pop, alternative rock (Birdhouse in Your Soul). Conversational, slightly eccentric male vocal with detached enthusiasm. Theme: mysterious pit vapours that give visions and fleeting powers — seeing past and present overlap, thoughts manifesting briefly, reality behaving oddly. Mood: playful, curious, faintly unsettling rather than dark. Instrumentation: bouncy bassline, jittery drums, clean guitar stabs, odd synth flourishes.
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Lyrics
[Verse 1]
There’s a flavour in the morning light,
Tiny orange satellites,
Floating past my open mouth,
Whispering from north to south.
I don’t breathe — I translate dust,
Every flake of iron rust,
Settles softly on my tongue,
Says, “We’ve been here. We are young.”
[Pre-Chorus]
Don’t look down, don’t look up,
The sky is in your paper cup.
[Chorus]
Oh the swarf, it sings in spirals,
Little metal lullabies,
Not a word you’d write in bibles,
But it hums behind your eyes.
If I stand here long enough,
I see an outline of myself,
All the air is full of teeth—
Chewing gently on the shelf.
[Verse 2]
Someone swept the factory floor,
But it’s back again and more,
Tiny filings, silver rain,
Writing patterns on my brain.
They don’t shout, they don’t complain,
They just settle in my name,
Tap-tap-tap against my skin,
“Let us in, let us in.”
[Pre-Chorus]
Close the door, close the lid,
They were talking while you hid.
[Chorus]
Oh the swarf, it sings in spirals,
Little chrome confessions spin,
Tells me all the town’s old secrets,
Tells me where the cracks begin.
If I breathe a little rough,
If I laugh a little strange,
All the air is full of teeth—
And it’s rearranging change.
[Bridge]
Not a choir, not a scream,
More a filing cabinet dream,
Index cards of what was said,
Hovering above my head.
If I wave my hands just so,
They align and start to glow,
Past and present overlap—
Someone dropped the timing map.
[Middle Eight]
They say it’s just corrosion,
Natural erosion,
But I swear it forms a motion
Like a quiet revolution.
Not dramatic, not divine—
Just a tremor in the line.
[Chorus]
Oh the swarf, it sings in spirals,
Copper vowels and iron sighs,
Every particle a rival
For the space behind my eyes.
If I stand here long enough,
I dissolve into the shelf,
All the air is full of teeth—
And they’re humming me to health.
[Outro]
Sweep it up, sweep it out,
Still it lingers round about,
In the rafters, in the seams,
In the language of machines.
I don’t mind the way it clings,
I quite like the way it sings,
All the air is full of teeth—
And they’re softly saying things.