1. |
Black Tongue Elixir
01:29
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Goddamn...
Do I really need this portrait?/
Or do I just need the wall masked?/
To tell myself tonight’s not just another step in the dirge dance/
Judging by these sleepless nights, I can ruin the morning light/
It’s Christ nails, and lawn darts, til the cithara gets the notes right/
That way there will always be a version of me dancing/
Hands up in the air like I held my damn self for ransom/
I was projecting shadows as I lit my cigarettes/
That covered up the path I should have taken with all my fickle steps/
But fuck it, black tongue elixir made me malleable/
Living with an upturned nose like nothingness was valuable/
Favorite colors are small talk, and I can’t get nothing past you/
Spill a million words until this face of mine is half blue/
St. Francis of the planter box, wears his chips like a tattoo/
Grass grows up around his leg each blade a thread of bad news/
A testament, of everything, a channel of peace has to do/
A sabbath of blood, and saturated fat for me to lose/
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2. |
Hellebore
02:29
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The divots in my shoulders act as shelves to house secrets/
‘Still Life with Boxing Gloves’ or a statue of Nicodemus?/
I should have left my car parked on South Clinton/
As an art installation entitled: ‘Fuck it I Will Walk to Prison/
Friends and their known names and cold apparel/
Tiptoe around the point like liars and their arrows/
As soon as my feet slip against that there Embarcadero/
I’ll peel back my flesh, to reveal I’m just Pierrot/
Saying things the wrong way, never meant to start shit/
I’d trade a million dollars for a thousand dollar tarpit/
A mirror image of the one in my gut/
Spewing all the contents into an image of Black Shuck/
I wore a face like kerosene/
On the day, that your bones, turned to match sticks/
I wore a face like kerosene/
On the day, that your bones, turned to match sticks/
How does my son of man suit fit me?/
It can’t possibly compare to your pretty/
Cutting corners making sawdust of the city/
Find a new one just to wallow in my pity/
Someone saw me sleeping and they didn’t put the knife in/
Someone called my bluff, and coerced me out of silence/
Someone left me with a grin and more than that enlightened/
I wore a face like kerosene your match stick bones ignited/
I’d like to dangle all my options on a string/
And watch them struggle as it turns to the gallows in the spring/
The hall of bitter faces with my thoughts lingering/
I’d rather estimate the chorus long before the lark sings/
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3. |
Telegraph Hill
01:25
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Ear to ear your grin could hug a frail one half to death/
Graze the rim of the glass for every second in the depths/
I’d like to spend my time palms clutched, standing next to you/
Or take a wrecking ball to my frontal bone, to turn it to a vestibule, cause/
I’ve got finished paintings in my head, that/
My hands just aren’t in love with yet, and/
I’ve got nothing that’s, hidden in jest/
In the open like the label from my bottleneck/
An anxiety peel, and the calming effect/
You showed yourself and then exposed your neck/
And there’s never been an ugliness like this love knife/
You gave me words like Harry Angstrom did to Updike/
Soft serve signs look like Virgin Mary statues/
License plate said ‘HEY’, but the face said ‘I’ve had it with you’/
Self absorbed Claudius, bitching about his bad news/
Cause someone, somewhere’s plotting my demise/
I talk like I’ve been here before, I look like I’ve been there and back/
I wear my skin like I’m supposed to, weathered and cracked/
I talk like I’ve been here before, I look like I’ve been there and back/
I wear my skin like I’m supposed to, weathered and cracked/
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4. |
Slocum’s Den
03:37
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That persistent sizzle sound...the common thread running through every day/
Mindfulness points to a 13X10 room with a low blue light/
Mariposa meets Lawrence at both the north and the south/
The shape of canned laughter and the audiences mouth/
And I live on Berkeley Lane, a bottle episode life/
Half head, half hilt, the only son of a knife/
And I hope at least I’ll be a worthy sculptor in time/
Without a, carpenters hand to build stairs for the climb/
Lucky that I ever got to float in your mind/
When the Acheron flowed parallel to our drive/
Now I’ll learn to write in braille to prepare for my blindness/
‘Have you met my son(sun)?’ he’s the catalyst to your dry lips/
‘Tell me once again why the needle goes in the iris?’/
‘Sell me to your friends so they’ll connect the dots that I missed’/
And they say that the hurt quells with age/
I’ve found that things get minimal until they’re in a shallow grave/
Hallowed days for all saints, churches turn to set pieces/
Lead toe, let go, and fade into a dead season/
I’ve seen things (that I need not speak of)/
And I’ve started movements (in my head)/
And I’ve been invited (to a Donner party book club)/
And I brought (black and white plus reds (reads)/
Noticing everything, caring for none of it/
Wear a stoics robe enough (who knew you’d fall in love with it?)/
Noticing your little quirks/
Stuffing down my egos glare/
Narcissus’ aiming eye, a meager stare/
I arrive, crooked windsor with a bouquet of blisters/
Fist full of splinters, from a weekend spent bewildered/
Let me meet your maker, I’d like to know who had the nerve/
Peruse your lexicon I’d like to have a word/
Fixated on a bird, irrational on a wire/
Whatever my eyes see fit, snowy ground meets shitty tires/
Young Ichthus is proud, fixes his crown/
To no avail, the hopeless veil, continues to hide the stubbornness/
Is this a dream in a jar for a zealot?/
Or a story that of which the only worth is just to tell it?/
Either way I sell it, a merchant of other people’s moments/
Surgically attach a door onto my hand to keep it open/
That’s no way to tell somebody you care/
Only concerned with outcomes, when out comes the dares/
And though it’s gone, I’ll always think of the stares/
And how I always meet angels round Jefferson Square/
I’ve seen things (that I need not speak of)/
And I’ve started movements (in my head)/
And I’ve been invited (to a Donner party book club)/
And I brought (black and white plus reds (reads)/
Noticing everything, caring for none of it/
Wear a stoics robe enough (who knew you’d fall in love with it?)/
Noticing your little quirks/
Stuffing down my egos glare/
Narcissus’ aiming eye, a meager stare/
Fixation directs the eyes to a fly, circling the most vital words/
In the most beaten to death sentence, of the worst novel of all time/
Curiosity aims itself at a poster hanging above the desk that held the gutter of words/
‘DID SISYPHUS WEEP?’/
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