1. |
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The whiskey man hollers “don't be bothered by creatures, who pop their collars to get frisky with models, as they get them tipsy, beginning to hobble, picking at their lips, at a Waffle House when the models get tired, I loved them once, when we fired rockets from empty beer bottles, we were boys in fear of men”
I watched the whole time, disturbed by his features, it was a curious, lonely, long rant, and he smiled at me snaggle toothed, the drugs had him fall in love with John wilkes booth
Thought I saw you at ramen with your sandy beach head, those deep blue eyes, disappeared when your ego died
You said “Scott I've seen shamans, Mystics, and I've been a dipshit, but this is where I belong”
So we put on lipstick and found when we had a common, chicken strips over fish sticks, but I was too high when you hit the bottom, in the dead of summer, I left you there with your lover
I heard you in the whiskey man's tongue, when he pleads “please just be decent, and have low expectations, we’re the crumbs and pieces of an unplanned procreation”
You never did come, never did come, you never submitted, you never succumbed, and I followed your lead, and I watched the elder leaves so frail and so brown, while I kick a butt that without my help couldn't get off the ground, someday you will bewilder and astound, but for now you’re in the crowd
The man full of whiskey grabbed my hand, and said “there’s nothing more important than your favorite band”
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2. |
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I'm sick and hurt, dropping ashes on your denim skirt, you were topping yourself tonight, I was your seventh drunken pass, revenants with cold skin on sunken grass, but now you remain in my arms I am completely fooled by your charms, breath warm like the ember of your cigarette, now please don't regret me
The blackstar cemented itself in the night sky like I knew it could, and what a fright the avalanche was shortly after a demented tattered chapter, even though we knew it would, we read ahead and Leonard checks out soon, as he knew he should, me the able bodied sinner, who could never make it home for dinner, so I grew thinner, we've join the ranks of fables, brooding over glitter giving thanks the stableboy
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3. |
Venus On The Half Shell
05:50
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The vacuum chords not long enough, we’re bored in the womb of a coffee cup, we assume we’ll have our birthdays, made a hobby of keeping surplus, my fleeting youth stuck in a toys r us in LA
Mr. Booth had has share of the backwood, and neither had made it to me
So I left that party for the backwoods, and neither was the place to be
Laced with amphetamine salts, waltzing tastefully
The mountains pull the clouds over their peaks like blankets, so let us bow at their feet, pretending god is in the stones, ascending as deacons in shrouds of red and gold, baptized in a fountain of a flood, holy mackerel!
Painting “merry christmas”, on the barber shop window where I long to hold you but the barber insist on talking about such remedial measures, and I treasure every second he holds my head in place, taking my mind off the pressure as a grin begins to sprout on my face, you were a gosh darn delight, for your sake, don’t resist a sinful life
Drifting to the top again I hold my hands in another, this body is rotten and one has gotten bigger than the other,
I slowly feel a rift in my impossible daydream, a plausible cause for my celibacy, impractical with metaphysical shoeshine, I feel a lift in my feet, cause nothing is holy nothing sacred, it’s not like me to be so pathetic, but the abysmal crumbling structure of a moment has me stumbling back home
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4. |
Lonesome No More Pt. 1
06:49
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Dear Gelsomina, your globe eyes teared up and I almost understood the cruelty of men without foresight or thought, a sight for sore eyes, ignore the pastor and the parson's son, bullies and nuns, you are an artichoke that's nothing but good, and if I Misspoke and broke down on a coastal shore, “I'm lonesome no more”
The well spoken guests are ingenious when they flatter “lovely there is still more in you”,
Consider it a token of affection, the truth is strenuous, look moses how Moses tried
Dinner with roses and wine, how domestic in our understated cool. What you said next was vaguely prophetic “I'm not working that nine to five, but I’ll give my life to school because knowledge breeds life and life breeds purpose”
Sunday evening never lets me rest my misdeeds are all blessings and I detest the normalcy of evening the odds with the reasoning that autonomy is fearful of its name, petty and cheerful, the plentiful fools abroad who tired of false prophets and weak willed gods
They profit off cold hard liquor and sunshine, like a crucifix fixed on the mantle, the Baird he bickers “sickness I can handle” and proceeds to kick of his sandals to feel the sand, “there is much love in these bones despite my wilting hands” he dove in the ocean to seek a pardon for the unopened cartons and unweeded gardens, things half finished and left behind, because in this great commotion we sink to the earth like suntan lotion, all the guests so soft and well spoken scoff at me like I was joking around, I’ll croak before I become them aimless and unused, there’s meaning in this pebble though it’s been tormented and abused, shamelessly erasing footsteps on the beach
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5. |
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Trickling down a dusty windowsill, we’re coming down now from all our fickle little thrills, in the middle of a pickled town in the eve of March, when your mouth was dry and the leaves were babies, and I was a baby to, cornstarch in a sippy cup, like brake lights on a motor truck, let the constable so trite and brash, bite the apple at the doctor's prescription
Elbows like snow capped mountains, sixteen underneath a sack of cotton on the Fourth of July, stuffing herself with blueberry pie, as shots ring off outside, in a bona fide war on their eardrums and fire warnings, we’re all in mourning, but it'll be the morning soon
Swollen chin and compliments, stolen gin is incompetent, so I’ll attempt to repent, the sins of my father’s father, who drank nothing but holy water, for he was the great fire starter who shook hands with Jimmy Carter
I am a bottle rocket, I shove my hands in both of my, pockets frantically fishing, panicked but wishing, that I could feel myself again, watching the elder leaves fall from the wind, there’s a trembling in my voice as I mumble sonnets of my choice, put your tonic in your gin and rub the bug bite on your chin, cause darling we’re both sick, Arlington can house heroes like you, so what's to do, because though we've never heard it we all still know and love the blues
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6. |
The Cut Of My Jib
04:32
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You tightened up and cradled your listerine, we were a frightened bunch unstably serene, reading magazines, featuring an architectural poem, by Akira Kurosawa, in a fractured style erect and solemn, with our backs against the column, Appears a Tora! Tora!, Akira was one of the greatest explores, so he got cut to ninety minutes, was barely given the budget to finish it's not like you say you love me, Alley Cat please say it first
This might just be the place to be, Walgreens in the winter, for longer than a century
“Son I gotta say you are from the cut of my jib, done are the days of your crusade as kids,
So let’s share a smoke and play checkers then finish this listerine, scared broke, gay as a shepherd, remain sacred and unseen, detain the stains, from our fallen queen
Lighten up your fabled prophecies, brighten up those rugged pale cheeks, don’t tease the bees so feebly, it’s free listerine
It’s Friday the 13th, 2029, we should all be in the streets given our bodies for dimes” “what a bad day for a near miss” I reply, “I guess this is the place to be listless, a place for me, of complete sovereignty I guess I've had a few, things look so fragile and new lobbies of red and gold, I’m gonna die before I get
older than my alley cat, so agile and humble, as we grumble and groan and moan about those in thrones behind desks, giving loans to us pests”
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7. |
Lonesome No More Pt. 2
06:48
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Dan’s writes the fortunes, for all the chinese restaurants, north of salt lake, west of Japan
Panned critically, he’s tortured, by these flagrant assaults, bored of being fake, with his artful hands
He writes “You will fall into a long slumber, at night and all your nightmares will come true, and you deserve it too and you won't preserve your youth, you’ll die of a beat lung, nobody ever found you fun, but hey man join the club
You don’t need a card to be a member, but we’re stationed in Denver, patiently waiting for whenever, vacantly reside, in a great tub of fluoride, to tide our skin disease”
The fortune was too morbid, you brain is draining down the sink, and it’s not raining outside, Dan you just need a drink
He cries “I quit, you are a pale and loathsome lot, say your goodbyes my dears, we’re in the armpit of a sty this for the Sears with the family essentials, for Emily my love although you were a rental, composed of dissonance and daydreams, I'm empty I suppose, and innocent to a grander scheme, but I have standards of living, and I'm tired of spending thanksgiving, in Oregon, with my born again wife and in all her suffering and all her strife, she tied me to the bed and fetched some lemonade, she begged wearily for me to stay, and I complied, and though it was cold and damp inside, I said
Let's go back east, where we were crucified for touching brass knuckles, and Spirit blues, our fields are concrete, and we’re pacified and unbuckling our seat belts, so we can measure how much we grew, we we were married to young at twenty two, and I've been alone ever since I ran her through, with a broadsword from her grandpa’s lover William his homely kid brother
“This is my last fortune, so listen in, “you'll be standing in a grocery store, with four little children inside of a lead pipe, and they'll all be mislead and think that Michael stipe, has a head of gold, you’ll all die before you get no one was moved by the stories you told told, so if you find yourself standing in a grocery store, just think, I'm lonesome no more”
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8. |
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The sunsets over the sea, there is sweat on my chest in Santa Monica
Plagued by regret and entropy, in the key of D squeals our harmonica
The piccolo plays so soft and gently, jegillos gather around an abandoned Bentley, for the flying crows Twenty's plenty, the spent up flows, of the great green garden hose, have numbed the tips of my toes, and crumbled the fabric of my bones, the maverick missed the notes but God only knows, your infatuation grows, the blood drips out your nose, and you squeal aaaaaaahhhh
You popped my sist in Laughlin baby, when we were moving coffins from shore to shore, mopping puss off the hotel floor in vain
You tossed and turned in Austin you didn't say a word about being lost in motels, losing your core during show and tell leaves a stain
A city cast into the sea, Humphrey’s last sigh of pity, triumphantly relaxed in high heels, his complicity intact, because no one wants him back,
his reels catch the eye, with that melancholy smile, says “this place is a sty but won't you stay a little while”
Misguided like a falling feather, the weather man extradited, when his country was divided from the war,
when the dust had cleared and subsided from view, his luck ran out, at twenty two when he lied about what we did in Peru
Profiting from the coup, in Laughlin baby, when we were building coffins, for fighting men, in all their plight, I hope we never feel this again
I never held you at the right angle, with your insides tangled, the truth is in the eyes, I'm missing a tooth and I have a sty, with John Wilkes Booth between my thighs, I'll cover myself in roses and wine, he poses with his ball and twine,
The sugar expedites my tooth decay, I can feel my flesh rotting away, with each and every passing day, I invite the plotting fasting things that will take us to our graves, resting with a sense of dignity, Humphrey last sigh of pity
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9. |
And So On
04:43
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In two weeks time, our blood will spill down the vines nothing has to be said unless you feel so inclined, I'm not afraid of the meek sunshine, you and I were made to keep, like pathways for the blind
I'll cover myself in roses and wine, hang the clothes out to dry, you loathe the stars, cause they're always late, I throw up in the car and you can't relate
Nightmares of psilocybin punctuating rhymes from the county fair in the winter's white harsh winds
The Lone Ranger weeps on the promenade, what a wonderful world we've made, born in a manger to multiple names, held your hands like a grenade
Listen to the trees, for the screams of gypsies and wispy folkstars, do they have food in ludlow, or a bar in Barstow, to drink rum with St. Bernard
Our stomachs growl and fuss, cause there's just something about us, that loves champagne when it's flat and plain, prefers cocaine for a cabaret, to detain the sorry nights, of inhabiting a flat mundane in Moscow, remember them blurry, so quaint and quiet, bare bodies together, as you scream for Wyatt, and I cry for him to
Plastered in drag the ranger interrupts his aching tune, to give thanks for strangers, the bastards, and buffoons, of Saturday morning cartoons
The Latter Day Saints came marching through, we were parched and exhausted, whispering “God bless you” godless as we are it was beautiful because we meant every syllable, tremble and tremolo, and I hope that each and every note reads true
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Ishroyale Austin, Texas
Originally formed in Albuquerque, New Mexico, Ishroyale is now a Folk-Jazz project based in Austin, Texas consisting of Owen Holmes and Scott McRae who also operate Ish House, a recording studio and practice room in Austin.
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