The Comedy Album

by Kleenex Girl Wonder

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  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    "The Comedy Album" is the 13th and most epic Kleenex Girl Wonder record.

    26 songs, covering a variety of genres, styles, and production methods, written and recorded over the course of two years, and now available on two slabs of strikingly coloured vinyl (some 'Comedy Blue,' some 'Bazooka Joke Pink').

    Featuring guest production from Max Tundra, Saskrotch, and The Hood Internet, plus the usual suspects of Graham Smith, Matt LeMay and Thayer McClanahan.

    Includes unlimited streaming of The Comedy Album via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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    Get all 19 Kleenex Girl Wonder releases available on Bandcamp and save 35%.

    Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of White Lacuna, Vana Mundi, Getting Started, The Comedy Album, Komplete Greatest Works Vol. 1, Arnolfini on the Subway, Let it buffer., Secret Thinking, and 11 more. , and , .

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about

"The Comedy Album" is the 13th and most epic Kleenex Girl Wonder record.

26 songs, covering a variety of genres, styles, and production methods, written and recorded over the course of two years, and now available on two slabs of strikingly coloured vinyl (choose from Comedy Blue or Bazooka Joke Pink variants).

Featuring guest production from Max Tundra, Saskrotch, and The Hood Internet, plus the usual suspects of Graham Smith, Matt LeMay and Thayer McClanahan.

credits

released October 28, 2016

All songs by Graham Smith.
Produced by Graham Smith, Matt LeMay, Thayer McClanahan, Max Tundra (3), Saskrotch (17), & The Hood Internet (21).
Mastered by Carl Saff in Chicago.

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Track Name: Parody Music
Could it be?
A break in the gloom?
A frame for the bruise you left
or the wounds you cleft
with your shoes
under the pretense of taking steps to improve?
So I'll believe it when you make the 10 o'clock news.
I'm only messing with you,
but all the same if you find
my societal impact
isn't aligned
with all this violent syntax,
you can decline to describe
what exactly it is
and we can wrap up this chat
and get back to the grid.
But remind me:

where oh where does the time go?
Why does it matter at all given I'm so
creepy and battered?
I need you to grab those
sepia-toned photographs of the past,
or maybe read me a bad poem,
or just rub my back.
Stroke my thigh like I'm a regular guy,
just some asshole
who couldn't change your life if he tried.
Look, I've got nothing to hide –
did you have something in mind?

Could it be?
Could it be you're scared?
C'est ma vie –
c'est la vie en merde!
Clarity shouldn't need be declared.
Therapy can't reach the unprepared,
but sweet parody…!

It shouldn't take all night
to capture the gist in a joke,
cram your things in a bag and
drift onto the road.
You can get a studio below the Domino's
or you could maybe immolate yourself in Cicero.
At a US Maple show –
no, Alkaline Trio –
you could never take a joke.
I don't even wanna know.
When the pentothal flows,
I bet you're out of control.
Listen, I think you're dope
but I'm a thousand years old.

I could be;
could I be so bold:
how are we?
How am I solo?
Comedy is not a microscope,
and I don't wanna seem like such a misanthrope,
but get off of me!

It doesn't take all kinds
of minds to unpack this
exercise in excrescence;
you'll be fine with a mime
and a stand-up comedian.
Listen, I think you're nice,
and I'm a stand up guy.
So come on,
hands up if you wanna take a chance on a lie.
Honey, I think you're WILD,
and I'm a stand-up comedian.
Track Name: The Wackiest Prank of All Time
She had a torso like the chassis of a Datsun,
but her vernacular was awesome.
Her hair was Franzia, her eyeballs were like saucers,
but her mind was like at least as dark as Chaucer's. And I lost her

‘cause where I hung my head was my home.
There's scared, and there's dead, and there's old and alone.
But these days flair is all the rage;
it's all millefiori and colonnades.

Love can lift you up,
but it's not enough
to get you what
you want.
It's rough,
I grant you.
I wish that I had you
But I had to give you up...

Like Stephen Malkmus hates Spiral Stairs
but no one really wants to take it there.
I read in a newspaper life ain't fair.
Also, everyone needs a dollar.

And we've been through all this a thousand times:
ditch the euphemistic aphorisms and lousy rhymes,
do something worthwhile, and be proud.
I wonder why the wackiest prank is being honest.

And you can laugh as you watch us
tearing up the village green.
We'll set up shop in your subconscious
and fill your heads with dreams
the likes of which you'll never see!

Love can lift you up,
but it's like a drug –
you can never get enough
of that buzz.
It's dumb,
but the alternative
is nothing or too much.
So I guess I'll give you up

to a roulette wheel and a fool that can deal
with the cruel unfeeling facade,
twice shod in your stiletto heels
and your steel-belted wheels
so you can ride for real or just walk

right into my heart,
knife twisting my arm –
slight miss, but you're warm –
I'm digging your charms:
all glistening lipstick, stickers and yarn.
All mysteries solved.
I'm listening...

Love can lift you up
like a crutch,
so you can hover above
the chaos you came from.
Love can lift you up,
but it's tough to judge
something as ubiquitous
as the sun.
Love can lift you up,
yes, but
are you prepared to plunge
to the earth for someone?
You're nuts. I get you.
That's not the issue.
Is all I can give you enough?
Track Name: Permanent Humor
Guy walks into Agartha...
Says “Where are the stars, for starters?
It's kinda like Sparta, but darker.
I'm looking for a Dorothy Parker –

long dark hair and eyes like Chris Marker.
Last I saw her she was working for a startup,
doing PR, a little front-end markup –
these renaissance women are dying to be martyrs!”

So we decided:
the world is constantly divided.
Privately, I sided with you,
but I'm an island.
I hope you become
one too.
Oh, boo-hoo –
what, too soon?
Guy leaves a bar like “Fuck you, moon.
You never stick around or even tell me what to do.”
Moon waxes, lyrically: “Fuck you too.”

A Irish rabbi and a British priest
were laughing as they riffed on the Middle East
and now it's my job to read the cleric in.
This shit is so goddamn embarrassing!

An international exchange to trade prayers for sins!
And who wins in an unfair comparison?
If you can't walk in his shoes, how will you wear his skin?
Hmm? Care to make your stupid joke again?

I don't like it, but that's okay.
I'll just cry or laugh, I won't whine or complain,
because it might just seem absurd or abstruse,
but every tight fifteen has a germ of truth.
Oh wow, that's wild!
Somebody write it down:
“Guy turns around like ‘Fuck you, clown.’”

Words flow like
swirls of opium smoke
from my mouth.
Hurling stones at a big glass dome
I'm told is Billy Joel's house.

From Dawson's Creek to
Krochmalna Street to the castles of Krakow:
Blackout! / Back to the Beach
The King's Speech / “Twin Peaks”
“Party Up” / “How's it Going Down” / “Down”
“Pon De Replay” / Dil Chahta Hai
Broadway the Hard Way / Fame / “Sloop John B”
Peelander Z / Freeway
Amanda Palmer / Staind
Track Name: Routine Comedie
Wait wait wait – tell me who's on base?
Anyway, I'm a genius at games and I'm seeing your face
on the news, on the case.
What do you stand to gain?
What's your take –
a foolish debate between two middle-aged corn flakes?
One's born every day, in the states –
I don't have data on the global rate –
but I hate your attitude.
Your platitudes make me constantly mad at you,
but maybe I'm crazy!

Down Periscope is nothing like the Navy.
Oh, I wasted whole days slavin' over radio.
Oh-oh, that's not slavery, no, no, no.
It's just a shame that we
both owe boatloads.
The feds are forcing us to sing like we're at Cold Stone
plus my course-load at the Sorbonne
is making me disproportionately mean and horrible.

C'est vrais! But hey, whatcha gonna do, today,
To negate the lunacy of all the hate you spew at me?
Maybe fake jewelry? Blasé tomfoolery?
Andre 3000, Bee Thousand or John Fogerty?
There's no way to deceive such a sweet human being,
or perceive what you see, or achieve what you dream.
See, me? I'm like a likeable belief.
I like to liken it to lichen: it's a weed
and it grows outside of me.

Primally, violence tries to define me –
fine with me. But I might keep on leaning on
the demonspawns who grind my teeth.
A sign of peace; a white
Egyptian cotton sheet on a wire.
The choir says “Never expire, retire.
You're stuck in the muck and the mire of desire.
Take snuff to stay tough in the widening gyre.
Liars for hire: die in a fire.”

Please God don't give Janis Joplin a Mercedes;
I'd feel a lot safer for the denizens of Hades.
Oh, ho ho. Such a pedestrian joke!
Well, no –
the system's broke
when a bold bro can get cornrows
and sling porno puns at awards shows.
Meanwhile, character actors and old pros
dissipate into the ether as foretold.

So you should hoard gold,
dig up a hole in the forest and store it
before it gets stolen by poor folks.
And give me your phone –
there's an app for that hat-in-hand rigamarole.
And of course you know
the porousness of certain borders
you grope like a horuspex
hoping to hone in on something
so horrible no one should know,
even if it's just a corny old joke.
Track Name: Gematria
I saw a showerhead that looked
like an old telephone handset,
and a gold bassinette
filled with anisette liqueur.
So that's what I get
for the shreds and the threats
and the breathy quartets?

We filled a flowerbed with sugar
and learned to forget the unknown.
Sunk a few headstones.
Got some new headphones
and a Geo Metro
and watched the Chia Pets grow.
Honey, you need to let go.

Three below, three series of Peep Show
in one stroke, only surfacing for
whiskey and coke.
And we spoke of the wide open hopelessness
we've come to know. Heaved and foamed,
thumbed our noses at ghosts. “Honey,

islands of smoke have spawned thousands of dopes.
Murders of crows descend even as we gather stones
and sticks for the cold quick encroaching
on our precious sunlight –
we'll sit through the whole thing.

Now, on our own, we may flounder or float.
We doubt we'll get out but
we'll beat the doors down if they close,”
she notes to an audience of no one.
She chokes on her ice cream.
Her time's up –
the show's done.
Track Name: Magistermind
You left it on the screen,
and then I wondered what it means.
So sue me! Oh you used me
like that mildewy Jacuzzi. Just another

squeaky clean squeaky wheel, okay.
Still guzzle that grease like it's rosé.
Oh, blow me. What do you know
about being lonely? Who do you know
that can get cocaine?

You left me off the chain.
And when you ask me what has changed
I can't explain.
It's not technical or profane.
It's probably just chemicals in my brain.
Listen: nothing was the same
for those left living –
Comfort, pain it's all just different.

A million vivid LCDs
let me as through a mirror peek
in your memory, sentimentally.
This level of telepathy is never healthy.

If you'd shut up your amygdala,
you could be great at being ignorant!
Oh, hug me. You can trust me.
Life is juvenile and ugly when it must be.

So let me off the hook.
Just let me be to be an open book
in a minor key.
I hope you took my rookery
as such, and look, what could it be
but love? See: all too good things too
shall pass. You'll never feel whole
if you go half-ass. So,

gild the lily, blanche the rose.
Can't change the past, or your plans, or clothes,
believe me. History repeats,
like a scratched CD of Gertrude Stein's
diaries.

But in half the time it takes to crack wise
a magistermind would divine a bad sign
and stifle. Easy to say at the end
of a rifle. Easy to say at the end
of the night.

So let me off the line.
Track Name: On Walter Hill
At home. Alone. A heel.
And somehow, you're supposed to feel
my pain. At least you don't have to be in my brain.
and see the thoughts I can’t explain:

A joke, a laugh, a smile.
They're all just tics, just give it a while –
Refrain. At least you don't have to hear me complain.
At least you don't have to

do anything. Say anything.
Mean anything. I mean everything's
too heavy, it's way heavy. It's
been heavenly – no Heavenly – before.
And I need it more than ever, see?
the door was opening –

'til wine did what it will
when you were high on Walter Hill
and wouldn't come down.
But somehow you got through to me
and me to you, or probably –
it's tough to tell now
how long each of us held out... oh well,

the kitten's grown into a man,
because I didn't hold your hand
and whisper “No need to be exact
when you're invoking a natural fact.”
And what I lacked in actual tact
I paid tenfold in tactical laughs. I'd trade
every last Chick tract on sex and greed
in my cyan front bum bag to read

Slant 6 interviews with you all night.
It's just never right whenever we just write.
It's kinda like riding a bike: 10 years on,
you'll forget everything and wish you could die.

So you took your first spill
down the face of Walter Hill
and he just chuckled.
But I, for one, foresaw trouble.
And when you wept like an open sore,
who knew what you were hoping for,
but it wasn't nothing.
And now you're suffering,
clucking your tongue and clutching
your tremendous knees, like tree trunks –
Jesus! Take a breather, PLEASE,
and cool out. I bet you think it's really cool how

in the blink of a blind eye you can switch
from bohemian to smooth, serene savage.
Convenient! You can tell the truth and not mean it.
It's genius!

But if I gave a hundred dollar bill
to Bruce McDonald or Walter Hill,
what would I get?
A masterpiece or merely upset?
Track Name: Certificate of Authentic Selfishness
My inauthentic self
crawled back into its shell.
Couldn't tell you how the critics felt,
but it's still selling pretty well!

The past just pales. But
drop by some time, blow a few rails.
Maybe I'll whip out the cat-o-nine-tails.
Blood'll trump skin because one must fail. What?

A three-word cri de coeur: Wow.
Much history. Still needs such work.
Suppose some succeed and others suck dirt.
Keep your ghosts out of my machine, motherfucker.

Well, it's overwhelming –
the psychic haze is hardly helping.
Some telepath! Fill a glass and tell me.
The silence is sick, fat, and unhealthy.
Never mind me, jeez, I'm just venting –
punk's not dead, GG's just resting.
The intellectual elite is still digesting
the Internet, and actually, we have a few questions.

Sunrise Manor, Sunset Strip.
Golden hour glamour, unblemished.
If you had a claw-hammer, the judges’d be split.
Look into the camera and tell me what you miss.

For me, my problem is
I got too much collateral to gamble with.
I probably shoulda stuck to making sandwiches;
the auslanders love my outlandishness.

Reno. Locals casino.
PowerPoint crashed so I'll freeball the keynote.
These folks don't even believe in TV shows.
Sweat beads thick as Fimo – let the dream go.

A rose is a rose is a rose
is a rose gold ring gonna change you? No.
There's no such thing as behavior, believe –
analysis is king, big data is queen.
By my count, too many viscounts: 16,
if you include Mystery and Walt Disney.
Narcissus in a Sisyphean dream: blinded
the second he catches his reflection in the stream.
Track Name: Fuck The New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker and Sasha Frere-Jones.
I dug up a few of Austin Osman Spare's bones,
made some incantations,
now I'm walking with a ghost.
You'd think this was the end of days
but we're not even close. So baby,

fuck the New Yorker; what do they know?
They haven't seen your grimoire
or your Broadway show.
They just sit in 4 Times Square, smoking weed and making jokes.
Meanwhile, you're resigned to writing rhymes for Wizards of the Coast…

So if you don't give 'em any credence, I won't.
Some may think that they're elitist; I don't.
It's just like Jeez,
this happens every fucking week –
I can't count the hours I've lost to
Alex Ross instead of sleep. So

Fuck James Thurber & Donald Barthelme.
The dadgum bygone past is just that:
so far away.
Now it's all about the art collection of
Anfernee Hardaway.
Jazz and Standards, Shouts and Murmurs,
nothing left to say.

Yeah,
Fuck the New Yorker!
I'd rather watch TV.
Pay a few cents to breeze through adverts
targeted at me.
Cor, those Shell and Ghurka placements must cost several tens of g's!
Never mind the kind of scratch you need to pay John Ashbery's V.O. fee…

Things have changed;
we're through the looking glass.
I'm late for my brain-cleansing and cooking class.
Plus that piece on Bahrain, it really whooped my ass.
I haven't even touched the Sunday Times;
I need something good and fast, so

Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
That's how it goes.

Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
Fuck the New Yorker
and Sasha Frere-Jones.
Track Name: Alone Indefinitely
Nighty Night: the Musical!
You be Cath, I'll be Jill Tyrell.
We'll film it all in a studio.
It'll be cool, no, you should be Terry and Glen Bulb too.

Remember where we used to go?
I can't. Shows we watched, news we broke –
just the scraps, subsumed, improved or removed.
Every little thing means nothing to me or you.

But do you wanna be a high school sweetheart
all your life?
With all its isolating connotations grating on your patience?
It's not right; you've waited all night
for a nice combination of observation and insight
with a list of likes and dislikes.
But all this augury gives me agita.
Sing us a song, silly, not a sonata.

We eat, we breathe, we sleep, we dream...
but we can't see the forest for leaves without trees.

Here I am, get used to it.
I'll let you think it through a bit.
Matter of fact, and I am gonna let you finish,
but you're clueless, foolish and useless

And I am the coolest dude in the universe,
yet you'd have me prove it,
pretending that you don't hurt me
like you always do.
And it's true, at first,
but soon it gets worse –
mark your calendars!

These feelings will seem so obsolete
when you're pleading on your knees for an hour's reprieve.
So if you believe in the healing power of dishonesty,
breach the membrane. You need to escape.
Leave all the grieving to me.
And we’ll keep our secrets under lock and key
'til we unleash our unclean needs and blunders sloppily.
There's got to be some democracy in this oddball odyssey.
You've seen the brief and the summary,
now, read the press release!

How do you intend to always know what's best for me?
How come you can't ever show that you're impressed with me?
How do you expect me to hold out hope independently?
How can we ever be free if we can't be alone indefinitely?

And definitely, the words flow effortlessly
when the specter of death feeds you lines from offscreen.
Now see, the difference between you and me is
you're lost when the world comes apart at the seams,
and it's seams that make us suit up each day –
to boot up our mainframes,
review our mistakes
and make use of the phrases
we're given to say:
“Among our milieu,”
“amidst a melee.”
And it's true what they claim:
you don't learn, you can't change.
It's no worse than old age,
don't get carried away.
With the wind at your back
and the sun in your face
you'll do great. You just wait.
Track Name: Great White
What you took for a grapevine
turned out, in the end, to be a straight line.
Calm down, anything you want to say is fine.
Wow. You may be wrong, and I may be right.
Now,

Moby Dick was your Great White.
Well, how'd that go for you? Alright?
Careful where you go drawing fault lines.
I have stared into the void; it's a salt mine.
Bow

at the altar of the Crimpshrine.
Let the locusts poke at your insides. Whoa –
I never knew there could be blood like this.
Can somebody catch me up on what I missed?

What we have here
is a goddamn shame.
I mean I love you,
but you're not that great.
I mean I – fuck it,
I could never explain.
Blame it on the blues,
it's the great white way.

Caught a good glimpse of your tail lights,
just never found an excuse to say “Hi.”
Hi. I'm just here to watch the paint dry. Why?
I couldn't say, it just feels right.
Riiiiiight.

Once bidden, twice shrived –
take a liking to a lycanthrope, you're bound to get a bite.
Who am I to howl at the sunrise?
You had one job, one time. And I'm

just a joke of a jester, yessir,
yesterday I was swept away by the pressure.
I guess I'll always be a little professor –
that doesn't mean I'm not touched by the gesture.

But what witch put wind to your sails?
Fumble for the words but your metaphors fail...
It's like you're trapped in a closet
with a snake in the dark,
or maybe it's a shower
and a great white shark.
Track Name: The Antidepressant Heiress
Well, you said it. There it is.
I was not prepared for this.
No more oversharing,
the focus of sober vision sparing
no detail or flaw or flare.
In every aspect: overbearing.

By way of comparison:
my shame and embarrassment
about the things I cherish
rendered in a tone most garish.
My house, my job, my marriage
to the antidepressant heiress.

Now she's supine on a spandrel
and I'm a colonnade.
The hoi polloi wanted a scandal,
well, they got one, eh?
It's not my fault I look like a mandrill
by mistake.
Tie a ribbon, light a candle.
Who am I kiddin'?
Just don't stand still.

The rush of the river over riveted applause.
It's one thing to say it, but you DID it. Oh my god.
Oh my god! What the hell is going on?
Dark eyes always failing me, total Photoshop.
Hell no it's not a metaphor, it's just a joke, don't stop.
I get no respect at all; luckily, that's not what I want.

I prefer the company
of people who mean nothing to me
and I to them. Am I to then
postpone my shy retirement?
I'm running out of spiderwebs.
They should have sent a scientist

to the moon and back and back
to the moon for the hell of it.
Got a room of one's own, but there's
no room to move due to elephants.
Jumping to justify everything but my inelegance.

You're so sullen when you're celibate –
you should celebrate.
You're insulting my intelligence –
you're doing just great!
But don't say it's just an expression when
I'm staring you in the face.
Gimme your antidepressants –
come on, I just need a taste.

Gimme your antidepressants
Gimme your antidepressants
Gimme your antidepressants
Gimme your antidepressants
GIVE ME YOUR ANTIDEPRESSANTS
Gimme your antidepressants
Gimme your antidepressants.
C'mon!
Track Name: C.B.S.
Light bulbs never leak.
Taut tautologies
can't beat a time machine.
Life is but a dream
we're likely to repeat
in soporific reveries
'til we deplete our energy.

Gross anatomy
is mostly strategy.
It's a relief – bas!
Listen to the streets talk:
polemics in limousines,
dim-lit dinner scenes,
and all the silly little things
we wish we still believed.

What does it mean? God
sure does love a machine.
You're just a liege, allegedly allegiant
to a legislative fallacy!
Ban the beguine, beleaguered bourgeoisie,
pick your parapets and parakeets.
Aren't you embarrassed yet?
Pray one more rare cassette might set the scene.
That's fair, that's ferrous sweat plus
the blood and tears of a marionette's regime.

Night club, nice teeth.
I wasn't who you thought I was;
I also wasn't me. Maybe that's 'cause
life fuckin' sucks like a leech
when it's not violating me,
leaving behind spirochetes
full of Weil's syndrome and Lyme disease.

Vitiligo, vertigo, verdegris –
it's all hot air to me!
You're right to eye me warily,
oh yea, for sure, and verily.
Hello muddah, hello fodder for therapy!
I wish you were there when we
went wassailing.
It really felt like an accomplishment!
Well, wasn't it? Tee-hee...

Yes! But I think I have CBS.
These days I fear I see reality less
than reality TV. But that can be our secret.
We can act like everything
is clear as crystal clarinets
blaring Greensleeves in a silo.
I know. I'll take care of it.
I also know I haven't yet, though,

because schisms exist
to wring shapes out of schist.
If they didn't we wouldn't
know which shits to give.
Compose, compromise,
never over-promise and
your will to survive
will be unlimited.
Track Name: Kismet Cute
It's just you
and your whole attitude.
It all comes back like a boomerang
or more like deja vu

because the truth is I'm an impudent fool –
at best, a slick useless tool,
but the exception proves the rule.
It's cool,

it's just me.
I've always been unhealthy to an unhealthy degree –
not so much in the body, primarily mentally.
Yet most of my waking hours pass by uneventfully –
but not all of them, evidently.

You should see
the lack of lustre I perceive, it's grimy grim and grey.
Which is why it's no surprise a tiny bit of me dies each day,
and utterly astonishing I'm fine just feeling great.
Oh, what a freaking shame.

Kismet cute –
Michigan avenue,
with Paul Smith on a loop
singin' Roller Disco Dreams.

And it seems
I'm fond of keeping myself on too short a leash
and sort of beating everything to death,
like horses, tramps and thieves.

And so I leave
the question struggling in the air
like autumn weeds or
clumps of hair and rotting teeth
in a ravine...

Oh misery!
It can certainly make you see certain things differently.
But every hallucination isn't visual trickery.
We've all got Pepper's Ghosts
and shivs up our prodigious sleeves.
But you listen to me!

Oh history:
it really is a total bitch, misogynistically.
And if Ken Burns can't turn this shit into a miniseries,
at least I'm blissfully aware of where I wish to be.
But don't believe in me.

I'm misusing an illusion.
It's just you and my illusion,
it's not me.

I'm confusing my confessions
with my future life progressions;
I can't read.

I'm losing my perspective
to my loosening perceptions.
I can't see.

It's a universal message
the universe suggests,
it's not just me.
Track Name: Be to Be
Intermittent clouds occlude my vision now.
I didn't gather me rosebuds when I could have;
I wouldn't have anyhow.
I lived it up, and I'll never live it down.
The windows painted shut – the quick prosaic thrusts –
I guess I made it up, I never made it out.

In a house the color of pink bismuth
I felt intimate; you sensed distance.
We fell into it quick as a whip. Lickety split.
Our azimuths aligned at one terrific zenith.
And though we've riffed upon nadirs gone by as though they were cliffs,
as we approach another precipice, I must wonder which way down –

into humanity's deep south?
Or into the gaping maw of a sweet pink mouth?
Let there be no redoubt. Not even
a hand-painted sign reading “VIOLENT DISEASE – KEEP OUT!!!”
What's another threshold? Everybody gets old.
Many stories get told, but this one creeps me out.

What do you mean when you say you mean business?
I'm thinking incantations and incense.
I'll prick my finger, you make a fist. It's simple as shit:
it serves no Earthly purpose just to simply exist.
So let me know when you and life work out your differences,
and let me show you motherfuckers just what impotence is:

Lay down. Lay down.
Just want to be to be so we just
lay down. Lay down.
Not to be mean, I mean, but please just
lay down. Lay down.
Just want to be to be so we should
lay down. Lay down.
Not to be mean, or not to be.
Track Name: Daily Post Mortem
Was it everything you hoped it'd be?
The things that people won't do openly are astounding!
And that Daily Post you read –
Oh I know, honey, don't think I don't
but I don't wanna talk about it.
You know the ropes, you know how we
run around like the ground recedes from our reach when we're sleeping.
All the words unspoken speak encyclopedic volumes
about all you've done to me, but I'm not much for reading.

So I'll follow if you're leading. There's no sense in repeating
the things I'm saying even if I'm staying.
And we both know I am leaving. Let's focus on my breathing
and my poor heart, still beating, needlessly, ceaselessly...

What's the dosage? What's the potency?
You need to learn to pay attention to the world spinning around you
and your precious prognoses;
you'll prognosticate and cogitate yourself to death
without someone to ground you.
So do we go to sleep? Or retreat, if only
a few feet so that we may overreach?
No. We hold our own and scream into our mobile phones,
or keep it to ourselves, you know, this isn't fucking poetry. So

if you're catching what I'm throwing you'll find comfort in knowing
all the things I didn't do wouldn't have made a difference. You
take the good, you take the bad –
anyway, you could, if it came to that.
And that’s the thing with unwritten rules:
if there isn't proof, it isn't true.

And you called that one, didn't you?
Took an ad out in the business news:
“A tour de force of ridicule!
Pitiful! Visceral! Vividly unliveable!”
Let me know how the tickets do;
no matter how thick the thicket grew,
you always knew who to stick it to.
Track Name: Cold Open
Noblesse oblige.
I confess:
I believe!
I'm a pest,
I'm a beast.
YOU'RE upset?! Well,
I'm not me.
In my head,
there's a shrieking alien,
and he's been keeping all
his technology secret, but now

we'll unleash the best outburst
you've ever seen!
Fireballs bright as tangerines
and wide as the panoramic screens
on which we cast our shattered dreams
and shadows and thick puffs of steam!
Oh, that old yarn again? I mean...
These Internet-bought theses reek
of unrefined humanity.

Like
me and Johnny McAfee
flying on MDPV,
crying on CNBC,
Mendocino to Belize.
Livestreamed mad uniques
‘til the g-d geodata leaked. Sheesh!
Don't take no genius to see;
these people'll believe anything!

So bring your shit to bear.
In the woods, trees fall all day,
who cares.
What's an ice cube to La Souffriere?
Oh, spare me your stupid pellucid stares! Look:
it takes two to rhumba,
just one to fuck up,
but two to fuck everything up,
so buck up, bud.
Dance til you crumple,
sing ‘til you cough blood!
It seems that we have different definitions of tough love!

You're maybe a hard PG;
I'm TV MA LSV!
Unsuitable for anybody,
inscrutably antagonizing everyone
who decries my amplified cramps as
unproductive fantasizing. It sucks,
I know, but that's my thing: whetting appetites,
then jackknifing.

So pass my light bulb crank pipe, dingus. Half my life I been asinine, see?
I classify my tics as High English, but most of the time I'm just rhapsodizing.
I'm the type to recite the right rhyme: a Mike Tyson biopic fellatio soliloquy.
But in the light of a guttering campfire, a blubbering landmine,
the B in R&B. So next time you wanna disrespect mine,
I’ll be fine in my gallon bucket of Red Vines. Oh my,
you look ravaging tonight. You forget
how fucking ravenous I get in the
shine of your bauxite eyes like
a pipeline right through the
night sky. It wouldn't be
my first white lie or
tight bind. Right,
cry, like I can
empathize.
Live from
New York,
it's Saturday Night Live.
Track Name: I Love New York (Magazine)
Ohhhhh they're sleeping in the streets!
They‘re kicking off the sheets – what a cruel, cruel slumber!
Whoaa they keep sneaking up on me
with the inscrutability of a sea cucumber!

Believe you me, I'm a resident of Queens,
so my sentiments won't mean that much to you,
but between the sea and the feverish heat of my dreams,
you'll see. There's a magic in me and it

grows with everything I eat – the artisanal meat and
the cream and the duck fat too! And I know
I should grant you amnesty for your sanctimonious speech,
but I can't, you're just such bad news.

Go. No one needs you, least of all me.
I couldn't be arsed to read you even when you were free
with your teakettle whine and your Emmental cheese...
Let it breathe. It's irrelevant. Can it be that
I love New York

Magazine?

No roads where you're going, no ghosts when you're dead.
But there's hope in just knowing it'll go to your head
when the quotes are all glowing, the holes are all drilled,
and the rows you are hoeing are hoe-rower-field.

Yo, bro, you're getting too old to be drawing Game of Thrones
in the margins of your notes. Listen, just to let you know,
mister, trust is what you owe. Our projection doesn't show
how much dust is in the bowl.

SoHo when it's snowing. The Cloisters in the sun.
YOLO, and no, you're never too old to die young.
Hobos in their clothing, and you in your coat!
A lowlander gloating: “You're missing the boat.”

Just blow town, throw me down to the wolves!
Howl like an owl, beat the ground with your hooves.
If it moves, give it space and its due.
If it's due, fidget, pace, make a face, and admit it's true:

“I LOVE NEW YORK
Magazine.”

I LOVE NEW YORK
Magazine.

I LOVE NEW YORK
Magazine.

Fuck it, I love New York Magazine.
Track Name: Plight
Too much Bacardi started speaking dumb –
never stopped, really –
where'd you get fajitas from?
They have margaritas?! What?!

Friday night, Mohegan Sun...
we all get lonely.
So why don't we keep in touch?
What does the literature teach us?

Plus, now I'm on Norwegian drugs.
No more TV, lychees,
crime, sex drive or violence.
This came down from the higher ups –

they said “You'll grow tired of trying, son.”
Well guess what bub:
I BEEN strivin' ever since I was
but a glimmer in my grandad's cornea.

So would you please be kind enough
to give me money and find me funny and
blindly, unconditionally like my stuff?

The drama of the gifted child:
in the middle bits it gets wild.
If you want to act infantile,
just smile. Drink a phial of virgin's blood.
We'll make sure the journey's worth your while.
You're within the system now.
The curse of the lifted brow.

Cash Rules Everything Around Me Cream –
now in soothing gel!
No need to be cowardly;
absolution corrupts powerfully, and

the words you always shout at me,
although unique, profound, and sweet,
are just calques of your subconscious dialect's
desires to get out its dreams. But

I'm so glad you found your chi.
That's cool as hell.
No no no, dude, honestly –
it really means a lot to me!

Somewhere out there, there's got to be
a doctor who can spot the defect in my
corpus callosum, please!

The dilemma of the engineer:
to give up everything you held so dear
to be at best a single elegant gear
with a clerestory window to the world
that you turned on its elephant's ear.
The trauma of persistent fear.
The plight of the insincere.
Track Name: W.S.
I don't know. What to say
or where to go from here.
It's clear; the roads are closed,
the train takes twenty years to show up, and
why do I shrink every time I grow up? Why do I drink?

Every time I throw up. I joked
and poked ya till you woke up.
La cosa nostra slowly broke up. Look closer.
Gain composure. I know if I was your cynosure,
I'd break frame with a fucking flamethrower.
I take the blame. You win. Game over.

We all – In the end,
we all die young.
The hot & cold, the calm
& high-strung.
Doesn't matter who you are
or where you come from.
What's a man gotta do to starve
in this paradise of food,
folks, and fun?

We all die young...

Yeah, no, sure, fine: “Your clothes hurt.” Bye.
Gimme five for the “will keep self alive.”
Lemme drive – Penicillin and a penny for your eye.
End up killin' time instead of what you meant to,
but it's nice. Really? Why? Tell a story, silly; cry.
“Selfish editors and foolish foley artists fill the sky
will he, nil he, and to die? Perchance to dawdle like a
millipede and caterwaul in misery at all this life has given
me.” I guess reading William Self just made him want to kill himself.
And I can't blame him. And I can't tell if it's sad, or true, or just as well.

We all – In the end,
we all die young.
And we're all too old, too,
and too fucked up to
ever nut the fuck up
or even buck the fuck up.
In interviews you say you're “on the come up.”
Come on, shut up.
Let me tell you what's up:
the sky. It's dyed blue. Why? Dude, you suck.
I tried to imply life is short, you're just dumb.
We all, in the end,
we all die young…
Track Name: Unrequitable
You had me at goodbye!
I'm sorry I was crying,
but I figured I should try.
Heard rave reviews
of dying too,
but I don't wanna die!
That's a lie;
I been lying all the time.
Maybe I'm just unrequitable.
I guess this is a sign

I'm a crow.
A wingless carrier pigeon
in an inch or two of snow.
The flares impair your vision
and the winds and trumpets blow.
Is it so hard
to believe that this is so
hard? Is it me? It's been me so far,
but these days I never know.

Wave away the prying eyes.
Make mistakes, don't try to hide
your imperfections.
Maybe they'd internalize
the palimpsests they purify
if we were to let them.
But don't think for a second
you can't vocalize an objection
without being vilified.
This crummy reception –
can you repeat what you said
like you meant it,
dim the lights and chill the wine?
In the interest of killing time

for your whole life.
You never met a promise
that you couldn't amplify.
And if we're being honest,
well, the we's not you and I!
Witness: crime.
Remote film footage at 5.
In an incandescent interview,
you hint you have a mic

in your lapel – oh L.O.L.,
you cavalavalier!
And then you tell the audience
about the speaker in your ear.
It's just as well. It's common sense.
Nothing is as it appears:
no one loves you, no one cares,
death's no comfort, life's not fair.

So to preserve our certainty,
we sniff out perps and perjury
like thirsty bloodhounds.
My worthless circuitry
got burned by your first surge and we
completely shut down.
But you shut your mouth,
the last little bit of love wormed out
from the middle of your third eye.
Don't think too much. Dumb it down.
The ground is where the best crumbs are found.
Goodnight!
Track Name: Inhale a D.J.
Whaddya know about bloodshed?
Never even gotten your thumbs red.
Never admit when you're upset,
just suppress.
Let none suggest you're not
crushing it!

But that's bullshit!
All these balloons are full of it.
All these buffoons are well-equipped
to inhale a dick for all I care
and I don't care one bit.

But once bitten, twice shy.
Listen to some Great White
and you'll understand why.

Two innocent lies +
one ignorant smile =
more idiots die.

Spin, wheel of time, spin!
Thread the needle eye when
you see the island.
Let the tiger swim.
Hey chief,
you're giving me grief and
I'll take it. Please,
just leave me –

how can you say that you're stable
when everyone thinks you're an a-hole?
Let's lay our cards on the table:
straight, full house, or flush,
I see you and raise you clouds of dust.

In an instant, the
pain resolves like a pin prick.
Your face dissolves in the distance...
still, this fix is in:
you have to inhale a few dicks to win.

You think you're impervious?
Tell me, I'm just curious:
you ever took a Turing test?

I know you're doing things that matter:
curing cancer and
dating an exotic dancer.

But ditch the pervy termagant.
Rent a slab at Burning Man
and a black conversion van.

Throw some blurry photographs
in a garment bag – listen, jack,
fuck the 99%!
They're all holograms.

Don't trust them!
The horsemen have muted their trumpets!
The apocalypse was a success!
There's only one way to get justice
and that's SUCK DICK!
Track Name: Ha Ha Ha
I saved the best for last.
Now I'm in a full-body cast,
singing “la la ha ha ha u mad!”
That'll teach you losers to lollygag!
Oh, it hurts sometimes, but not too bad.
It works sometimes, but not like that.

Sold it all for a wedding band.
Ended up in a wedding band,
playing tabs with a hard-on and a heavy hand.
Oh, I wish you hadn't met me when you met me, man!
I wish a million things had never really happened that have.
I guess I'd rather be slow poisoned than be stabbed in the back.

You laugh - ha ha ha!
Do the math - ha!
Maybe you just don't know how to add.
Get back to the basics:
there's a time and place for
a race to the grave, but
you're too scared to be afraid.
It's a trap!
Ha ha ha!

Played a prank in a hockey mask.
Now I'm at the bank in a body bag
and I hope you get this message and call me back.
I was listening to Zomby and I'm awfully sad,
and I been missing everything I always thought we had,
and I been listing every single overwrought demand one could have!

I could have been a bureaucrat.
Now I'm singing barbershop in laundromats,
and I think of the past and it's all just black.
‘Til I drink a Labatts and it all comes back.
It is what it is. It's as simple as that.
We did what we did, someday we're gonna laugh –

“ha ha ha!”
Remember how you'd react –
Ha! Yeah, like I was under attack!
Ha! Years of lucid nightmares compacted like trash
'til they blew up in Times Square when a camera flashed –

Two flags, one checkered, one red.
Two mouths in a bed, one puckered,
one stretched.
One shepherd unconcerned with any consequences;
one elephant it's impossible not to mention.
One twisted inflection can break the surface tension;
one kiss obliterates all nagging apprehension.

Two rounds to the death, too proud to forget.
2 Chainz around your neck, two brains up in your head.
Two states: unenlightened and overexcited.
Too late: it's right behind me
and I'm holding my breath.
Time was I'd murder crowds on total autopilot, but
my buzz is dying down; I'm met with utter silence.
Track Name: The Best Shape of My Life
I put a picture of my dick on Facebook,
and then I slipped into a hole when they took
my profile down.
Even though everybody knows by now:
I’m just a shallow narcissist and I don't close my mouth
when I breathe.
That's why they unfriend me.
That's why I lay upon my bathroom floor for more than ten weeks,
self-medicating with menthol cigarettes and Hennessey.
I swear these 50 fexofenadine will be the death of me!

But it's true:
it's not fair,
it's not cool,
it's not right.
You're listening to Belle and Sebastian in the middle of the night!
Meanwhile, I'm in the best shape of my life.

So do you like me now?
Going hard in the paint
to retrieve a rebound.
When it started to rain,
the mascara streamed down my face.
Now it's only a clown
that's leaving, someday,
for some reason, somehow...

I put my music gear into self-storage,
and got a separate one to sleep in in Norridge.
I figured it out:
I'll build a time machine like Primer,
then go turn it around.
My future couldn't get much dimmer,
but my past is like a cloud
of radium, the size of a stadium.
Who's got time for brandywine and laudanum and ladyfriends?
Nobody, as it turns out, but still the déclasseé pretend
that they are way more homo sapiens than homo sapiens.

And it's cool,
it's fine,
it's house rules.
It's alright.
I'm missing out on so much action;
this play within a play is just a lie about a lie.
It's kinda like when
I say I'm in the best shape of my life

in People Magazine.
It doesn't work as a yardstick ‘cause people haven't seen
the shape I was at birth, and all the ones that came between
the ones I love and me.
Now it seems
I am strongest when
invisible to everybody

but see, I'm in the best shape of my life.
Track Name: Like Lena Dunham
She looked like Lena Dunham…


…but nobody could tell.
They just don't know her work that well
outside of London.

So all references fail.
She's just another white female –
but it's Lena Dunham!

What, they can't subtitle her show?
I mean it's hardly hyperlocal,
though Lena Dunham

desires not to be universal.
Someone should let her editors know.
Heyo!

“I built an empire out of blood and sweat
and life's little disconnects,
and I ain't finished yet.

I've dealt with my fair share of ignorance
So what's the difference?
I mean, in a bigger sense,

I could be a shitty neighbor or a brilliant fence,
like Lena Dunham.

I thought I had a story to tell.
Now I think maybe I don't.
But also, ‘Hey, what the hell?
What's life but suffering?

I guess she just looks like anyone else.
I mean, I kind of look like her myself –
who, Lena Dunham?!

Oh God I actually totally do!
And wait a minute, why am I totally nude
like Lena Dunham?!

I feel like this could be misconstrued.
I should probably read a few interviews
with Lena Dunham

and learn about her cultural baggage.
I mean, I'm not a fucking savage!
To wit:

“I watched the liquid dribble down my chest,
feeling powerless,
wondering ‘God, what next,

another thousand hours of profound regret?
Perhaps a breakdown on set,
or just a pound of flesh

for the dogs or the press?
Or just a long slog to my death?
There must be somethin'...

...if I had a mind like an elephant,
maybe I could fly like a god-damned pelican.
Like, “Hey, I'm just being playfully irreverent
kinda like the time i went on Letterman on mescaline and dexedrine!

So I look a little like a lesbian.
So I read a little too much into instant messages.
So I have a voice and an agenda and I'm not afraid to leverage them.
So I'm belletristic and ephemerally relevant –

everybody knows:
no one cares which way the wind blows
until it fucks them.

And in the end, the love you steal
has no connection to what you feel,
like
Lena
Dunham.