1. |
Take Me to Your Leader
03:59
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Honey, sometimes talking to you is like coming down from outer space
I feel like a stranger in a strange land when you get that look upon your face,
but I swear I will pursue these, my intentions, without haste
following every avenue since the invention of the chase
I can recall most of my history
and I think I did fine in biology
and I know that 1+1+1 is 3
and I am in possession of a degree
and I wonder what an underworld
to plunder if you were my girl
gas light and incandescent black pearls
Take me to your leader if you know what I mean.
Take me to your leader, if you know what I mean.
My lover informed she was alive
but I might have said warmed-over or revived
Now pods land in the nursery without rhyme or thought
on the anniversary of a crime
or something that a Cassandra said
Come on, get your Mirandas read
Come on and put the kids all to bed
Baby, I'm a bleeder, don't you remember me?
Baby, I'm a bleeder, don't you re-member me.
Take me to your leader if you know what I mean.
Put on that dress, dear, I am your beseecher
All the alarmingest, charmingest creatures
wait for a glimpse of your Sunday best
All the satyrs and nymphs have come in to confess
Put me to the test, I was blessed with great teachers
all the beguilingest, smilingest features
I've ever known were a shroud of your face,
but I'm proud to have grown unbowed since outer space
You strut and you strive
but I've seen you gutted and unglued
I've seen you sit around and sigh
What is that thing you call alive?
Scribes said it was foreign, it was a dive
But I heard honey pouring out of a hive
Inside, officers swore in, hands over bribes, imbibed
Now, love, are you boring or have you died
and enlisted in the demimonde's
phalanxes of enemy blondes?
Oh, Sisters of the Double Entendre,
Take me to your leader if you know what I mean.
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2. |
Saint Sex
04:07
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There is a kind of sex that expands, like the heart of man pickled in alcohol. It overthrows all walls and commands every view of the land from Bangkok to Nepal. There is a kind of love that is left when the doves and rest of the flocks have all flown. And Manley Hopkins, blessed, said it best when he swore that the Lord was a crested bird homed in on a target: Saint Sex! I want to touch you, Saint Sex. I want to trust you, Saint Sex – strap me to a rocket, let me do the rest.
There is a kind of hurt that dissolves like the sun on the tongue of a twenty-year-old. There is a clod of dirt that revolves round a great flaming ball, until it thaws or goes cold. There is a bowl of dust that is spilled on a lot that is tilled; there is a crop that gets sold. There is a kind of house doesn’t build, kind of cup doesn’t fill, a kind of hand that won’t fold. I want to hold you, Saint Sex. I want to scold you, Saint Sex. I want to fold you, Saint Sex – put you in my pocket, put you to the test.
There is a kind of game that is fun insomuch as you’ve won, or so you can tell yourself. There is a kind of name that is yours when you’re not on all fours, barking at your bookshelf. There is a kind of yours that is mine, overgrown like a vine, twined in our walls and our cells. There is a kind of more than can haunt, not a ghost but a taunt, and you will flaunt it yourself. I want to know you, Saint Sex. I want to show you, Saint Sex – point me to a socket, put me to the test.
Morning comes with a mutter: oh, the wind it hovers on the pond. We’ve been awake too long. We’ve been awake too long: every ember and other, oh, will be your lover and be gone. We’ve been awake too long.
There is a kind of glove that’s so soft it can only get off when it is being put on. There is a golden grove we can go: Margaret, don’t you know we can fondle the fronds? There is a kind of sleep that gets lost: like a mind, like a frost, like a hat that is doffed. There is a kind of song that goes on well beyond turning on and when the knob is turned off.
I want to know you, Saint Sex. I want to hold you, Saint Sex. I want to touch you, Saint Sex. I want to draw your last breath. I want to suck your last breath. I want to draw your last breath. I want to love you till there’s nothing left.
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3. |
You're a Rival
03:31
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A singer may require a device
If you don't have a ringer
with a voice of Olympian nectar on ice
then a dose from our stinger in the throat should suffice
to entice and inspire
new admirers with soaring, Gregorian pipes
Make Beatlemania seem like
a zany appendix to one of your nights
for an "Is this erroneous?",
frankly felonious price!
A bassist may require a pulse
If you buy her in stasis,
just supply her or him the appropriate volts!
A drummer may have need of a brain,
or perhaps one that's dumber
with our methalyn-opiates it's all the same
No need for wires or emulsifiers
just turn our adjustable dial
according to preference
and deference to genre or style!
You will find that the future will converge like a scythe
and unbind all the sutures
all the seams that confine, until, slender and lithe,
a resplendent new creature will emerge from the pile
and ascend to the bleachers
all rippling tendons and aquiline features, and smile.
Swallow your manhood and call, and our band could
most definitely be your life
All for a feasible, totally reasonable $6,666.95!
Though foes would delay you with libelous prose
and the blades of their knives
Your rivals will tremble and dive
as the thing you resemble arrives.
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4. |
Madeline
05:28
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I spent a couple years in Hell. In the Seventh Ward, down by the City of Dis, you get the kind of clientele that finds a ship to board and checks into the brig. Me and the schismatics were swell, living it up like lords in our palatial digs. No lack of lots that fit me well, all jutting out like fjords right into the abyss down on the Rue 666.
I went to Europe for a year. I drank of what was near and, like a foreigner, pronounced the names with bated breath of various Vermeers and foreign words. Upon the battlements I crept, to peer into the face of North America. But every secret remained kept, there as in every place I’ve known a terrace of. If there were poems to be gleaned...yeah, well, you know me: I overslept. Somewhere, a string ensemble keened; yes, and I am told that Jesus wept.
I have been brushing up on my Proust, but there are no madeleines for you.
No little triggers on the shelf, or sitting on the plate to be bit into. When everything is just itself, there can be no escape, there is no interlude. And you are not a metaphor: you’re not the House of Lords, by giant consumed. And you are not a harpsichord covered in pitch and torched by kids in Waterloo. There is no easy way to know, just when I thought of you, if you were missing me. You’re not the reason for the snow, and being missed, it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s not by you that I was kissed when the rain came down and turn to mist, and I could feel it on my lips. I know it’s not by you that I was kissed.
Faukes’s likeness burned in effigy. Flocks of wights watched and churned on the heath. Now the winter has turned into spring. But Madeline, I haven’t learned anything.
Now I’ve been living for a spell in a rented room above the meat market. It wasn’t really a tough sell; I get up on the roof and watch the street darken. There are bodies everywhere, all getting bent like shadows up against the walls, and I can only sit and stare. I swear that there is something coming down the hall. There are bodies everywhere, but are they carrying anything at all? Or full of more than they can bear? They start to stagger, then they’re gonna crawl.
Seasons walked out the door without names. But now, suddenly, I’m not the same. I was touched by no reason or flame; but Madeline, suddenly I’m not the same.
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5. |
Necromantics
05:37
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I have read Tennyson's Idylls of the King, and I fed venison to the dinner feast. It was a potluck out of a dream, and a buck that I shot and cleaned. And we spoke in apostrophe, invoked idols long undersea in the hearts of all but the most discerning men. (Yes, and then...)
I have slurred all the words to "Mr. Grieves". I have heard angels purr on a cassette tape under static cling. Hunters of fossils and disc jockeys all jostled for our esteem as we lunched upon lotus leaves. And someone in velvet sleeves said, "We are agreed -- there is no such thing as sin." (Chin chin!)
Are we not what we eat? I can't decide anymore.
Necromantics don't know what to wear to the fair. No semantics could hold up a flare to compare. Exultant in the heart of our lair is a chair – can't get a glimpse, there's no there there! Do you care?
Vandals and Philistines are within sight of the door. They're milling in the streets – can't go outside anymore.
We reserved all our rage for the libraries. Sing, O Muse, of the phage that unfurled on the world merest anarchy. The emperor, from head to toe, is definitely wearing clothes. We'll genuflect as he goes, so sinewy, to the show. He is continually playing a show – listen! (To the snow falling faint, faintly blow.)
Candles are wicked things – can't shine a light anymore.
Necro-police, they throw wild affairs. Let your hair fall discreetly nowhere, everywhere. Do you dare? Pack your valise, cause we're going there (though there's no there there). White laundry sheets, the strangers will stare. Do you care?
Fires are flickering, licking the side of the door. We fall to bickering, can't pick a side anymore.
So load up your pockets full of all things apocryphal. We'll sail our sarcophagi serenely into the sky, where the image of a great eye – though blemished with a great sty – cries in witness to our toil and plight. Amen.
In what city to tread, full of dread? And with what company break our bread?
LET’S OPEN UP THE HEADS OF THE DEAD. AND WE WILL SUP UNTIL WE ARE FED. WELL, I KNOW WHAT I SAID.
Are we not what we eat? I can't decide anymore. They're coming through the trees – can't go outside anymore.
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6. |
College
03:23
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There are some days you go to class. There are some days you don’t go to class. There are some days you go to class. There are some days you don’t do that. I want to call you on the telephone. I want to see you, make you cry. I want to tell you that I’m not alone. There’s too much in front of my to close my eyes. I want to know about it, in college. In college: there are some days just like a fast. There are some days just not like a fast. There are some days just like fast. There are some days not like a fast. I want to tell you like a dictaphone. I want to spell you every little line. I’ve got to tell you that I’m error-prone – there’s too many uses for our precious time. I want to know about them, in college. Put on a show about them, in college. There is a face you wear to class. There is a face you don’t wear to class. There is a face you wear to class. There is a face you don’t wear to class. This is a phase you think will pass. This is a phase you pray will pass.
In the meantime, come on and live a lie.
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7. |
Cry Shame
04:27
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Come all you lovers, husbands and wives. Sisters and brothers, stand me upright. Unhook the covers over my eyes. We've got our pride.
I think of my mother holding me tight. There was a shudder that crept through the night. Whispers and mutters, trembling and sighs. A fright…
I wish I may not with all of my might cry shame, or what you want to name it.
If I was given all of my life back to be lived in, to be made right, I'd wreck and rend it a second time, try though I might.
All this deferment, dearth and delay, until interment, earthly embrace. What is a man but a suit and a pair of shoes?
Cry shame.
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8. |
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Gather your wares and prepare for a toll
Crossings have fares, bridges their undead trolls
Armor yourself in the gifts of viziers
Harbor top-shelf, graveyard-shift Belvedere
Solemnly it sings to you in your velvet chair
You sit until you're fringed with blue in your underwear
You sit until you're told, "this ain't no rock and roll
so crawl into the fold..."
You ain’t no rock and roll.
Ponder the drapes, the well-placed souvenir of
a wandering traipse: Turkish vase stuffed with liras
They say that no one's called a truce with the neighborhood
by polishing off a tall chartreuse and a spruce-like wood:
a smallish new flagpole!
This ain’t no rock and roll.
You ain’t no rock and roll.
Now all that you chased and forgot
you have vowed not to retrace – let it rot
Go on and howl in the chains that you linked and wrought
some kind of scowl spread on your face like an inkblot
It's not going to stop
Caverns unwind, sugarglass darkly shimmers
Catacomb-twined, jagged mines spark and glimmer
Staggering blind, you will pass through the mirror
what will you find, saturnine disappearer?
In radiant merlot and chrome you are moving on
like soldiers on furlough at home sail across that pond
back to a distant shoal
You ain’t no rock and roll.
We ain’t no rock and roll fun!
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9. |
0.0
04:54
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If I may be candid, I admit I really care
I can understand it: All the history is there
I was a kid in Greenville, NC with a subscription to Spin Magazine
I bought Fugazi's first LP cause it seemed like Rage Against the Machine
we didn't really have a scene
we read the stories on the screen
hit refresh on Kazaa streams
The truth, if you demand it, is I witlessly am scared
of goose eggs cracked one-handed, whipped and whisked into thin air
What's good enough for Travis Morrison's probably more than good enough for me
What's good enough for Zaireeka is more than I could ever have hoped to achieve
We won't fall upon our swords
we will crawl back to our Zords
assemble a Titanosaur
a Captain Planet or Triforce
We're gonna show all you dorks what that red button's for
it is a time machine
it runs on lima beans
and when the sky turns green
it is a sight to see
take me somewhere I still care to believe what I read
Matt LeMay, the Trail of Dead
ruled my 15-year-old head
I was grateful for the news
as only virgins can enthuse
Brent DiC., I beg thee hark!
something made mostly of snark
slouches slack-jawed through Grant Park
to wield its hacksaws in the dark
Ryan Schreiber, tell me true –
where are your early reviews,
to be publicly perused?
Are you ashamed of your own youth?
I expect I surpassingly will be ashamed again, oh – in a matter of months, maybe weeks
If we're gonna fall on our asses, then let's at least do it spectacularly
Let's put on our colored glasses in line for a spectacle filmed in 3D
Before they are cast into plastic bins, tossed in receptacles, lost in the streets...
Ladies and gentlemen, kindly remain in your seats.
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10. |
Your Arrival
05:55
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"All your instruments cannot locate her!"
Traversing the tundra, crossing the equator
Sunburst to penumbra, on frigates and freighters
I've cursed these conundra, these Robinsons and Mercators
Hats off to Bermuda and her triangulators!
Razor-jawed barracuda raised on bad navigators
all converged in pursuit of this, your humble narrator,
who, not to be made food of, is now a communicator
You are lost in space, canyons and craters
I am lost in time, but I will face you later
And then you'll descend in the Hindenburg light
of our twinned masterpieces, mid-flight,
blasting out bright
like a catastrophe might
Johnny, get your gun: Jerry's got the funds
for mutually insured annihilation!
We're gonna break some trusts
Gonna shake so many bonds
we'll swear we've invented teleportation
Burning through all these ruins of nations
but there are more journeys than destinations
And I believe that we might coincide
on the eve of a biblical blight
not breaking stride
just like the four horsemen might
Where do you pay rent? What hostel or pension?
On what continent? In what dimension?
We've been staggering and spent without comprehension
for too long to begin paying attention
The new New Romance is coming for us all
Some of us can dance, some can barely crawl,
but I was born to read the writing on the wall
from Babylon to these blurry bathroom scrawls
I'm in the throes of something here
I am in the thrall
of something so sincere you might be appalled
But I will not leave here alive
And you will not leave here alive
But I did not arrive when you arrived
I won't arrive when you arrive
and that's all right
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Surprise Flapjacks Durham, North Carolina
Surprise Flapjacks makes music about communists, existential crises, zombies, and lovesickness (and, of course, zombie lovesickness). The Carrboro and Durham-based five-piece creates melodic, energetic pop awash in sugary hooks and group harmonies, shot through with nervous surrealism, and tempered with submerged melancholy. ... more
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