Often, when I feel low I
call yr dad and
make him tell me
about the arsons that
he committed years ago.
Often, when I meet yr dad
at the ALLNITE DRUGSTORE
he is dressed like Ringo Starr.
If I point this fact out to him however,
he will invariably do one of two things:
1) He will either shrug...
2) Or he will light himself on fire...
I can never tell which of these things he does.
From where I stand they look like the same thing.
Track Name: Goose is Dead, Maverick. Goose is Dead.
When did you grow so young and boring?
Where did you learn how to destroy
the feel of a room by looking alluring and
using the dull side of your voice?
How did you learn that?
I've been carving shelves into the abandoned
hollow side of the night in order to have
a dry place that I can
fill with the esoteric, 'serious' rhymes that I've collected
since the day I decided to move to Montreal.
While this has been going on, I've seen numerous friends give in to the ascetic side of their upbringing. They want to play roles that are clean. (Too Clean).
When they re-read your collected works they
have dreams about setting fire to Montreal.
Track Name: Judy Chicago
All of the girls in this town wear their hair as
if catastrophe were imminent.
I've lived in that world. I don't need a man
in a mint green three piece suit to tell me that
I ought to be awake. When the slow light travels around your room, as it unravels at the end of the day,
I feel disheveled, but I still feel good.
When the thick light levels the neighborhood the
street resembles a wedding scene between
the buildings and the space
between the buildings.
Track Name: Tell Me it Isn't Your Blood
The letter that you left when you escaped said:
"All that I want is for his head to be brought
before you on a plate".
Nigel looked at that letter and then he said:
"I can't tell the future from the rain that is coming down
around us like a whip...but despair would look good on her".
(I don't think he really knew you)
But I did, and I agree with his glib remarks.
When he talks like that he sounds
like a patriarch or a chartered accountant.
His words keep churning
around in my head. I can't
get them out.
And I don't know where you were tonight, but there is blood on your spectacles...
...tell me it isn't your blood.
Track Name: David, Burninggg Down the Haus
Nothing left to mention? Nothing left to quip?
I barely pay attention to anything anymore,
(although I have starter to notice the way that
the colours slip off of the houses
and coalesce around us,
tearing the night to shreds.)
You don't seem to notice.
You look far away.
What were you quoting when you turned to me and said
"My the streets are black tonight. The streets are
talking back to us. I hear them in my head. They
claim that their coat pockets are full of tears
and cures and keys..."?
I'm not sure that I agree with you about the streets, but I'll hear you out while
the neighbourhood around us feigns blindness.
Everybody here is a friend of mine.
I know what they need to forget about:
the crooked working week.
People say curved things about you. For example, they claim that you are especially proud. (I can hear it
when you speak about the history of
mysterious glances and they way
some people rhyme 'I've Been Having Visions' with 'Meet Me In My Room', although you're in no position to critique those rhymes as vehemently as you do).
The streets are turning
white. Has the night come home
for the night? It feels like that time
when you came in from the cold and told me about the new language you had created. Did you have an address prepared? Were you reading from a sheet? I can't remember.
Track Name: Money Feel Like Money
The papers say that you caught me trying to
erase your memory.
I guess that, when the storm let up (and
nothing was revealed that wasn't in my mind),
I started telling lies about you: about the way that you sleep on the sidewalk, and about they way that you make deals with the other true believers who sleep on the sidewalk.
These lies caused me to do strange things.
On the subject of those true believers: I've seen them selling VHS tapes in front of the local cemetery, the one that used to be a catholic school.
I have it on good authority that, when that graveyard was still a school, the insignias read:
"People weave traps with their voices in order to capture and torture each other with words"