1. |
Ghosts & Goblins
02:26
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Seven more, unaccounted for days gone by, days gone by
Oh give me a home, a catacomb, of love and dust, dust and love
Come from a line of lonely people. Eggshell walkers, pins and needles, they poke thru skin
God said, “Leave me alone! You’re robbin’ my banks and tappin’ my phone"
Come from a line of lonely people. Eggshell walkers, pins and needles
War-torn dresses and backyard messes, from here to here to here to here to here
You’re seasick! Physical! A mastermind of the cynical.
Come from a line of lonely people. Eggshell walkers, pins and needles Backyard messes and war-torn dresses that soak up choked up blood.
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2. |
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I am the lamprey, and you are the shark. We are the bugs beneath the lovers in the park
Crashed to earth like angry kites. Like poltergeists
Sneaky eagle steals cash from the man-made lawn. The lights are on, his skin is gone
Crashed to earth like angry kites. Like poltergeists
Laughing like gods dropping like flies. Shielding myself from your eyes Placing a call, sending a tone. Faking true love in our identical homes
Crashed to earth like angry kites. Like poltergeists.
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3. |
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Nefarious Smalls bought it all
he turned the West Bank into a shopping mall
Nefarious! Our Mister Winter
let us sleep on the floor but the wood gave us splinters
It all seems so Byzantine: riot gear on the TV screen
Freaks arrive in their limousines, calling collect to make out
Draconian vibrations from undisclosed locations
Watch us sink and tumble. Tip-toe in villain shoes
It all seems so Byzantine, riot gear on the TV screen
Three piece jackals shooting gasoline, calling collect to make out
It all seems so Byzantine riot gear on the TV screen
Three-pieced jackals shooting gasoline.
So all we can do is make out
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4. |
Hey Furies!
02:59
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Haven’t said a word for well over a year.
The vampire escaped and whispered in my ear
The cracking of the chairs, the thing under the stairs.
Furies got their guns, the Furies got their guns
Hey Furies! Back off!
I’ll leave you in the night, I’ll leave you in the morning
And before too long, I’ll leave you in this song
I’ll leave you before school, I’ll leave you after breakfast
I’ll leave you in my car, just leave me with my scars
I’ll leave you in the bath, I’ll leave you in New Zealand
I’ll leave you with a shhhhh, I’ll leave you with a shout
Handful of earth spread on leg and thigh.
Sky full of light burning my eyes
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5. |
Orange County Trucks
01:41
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Medicated, pixilated. Sucking up air behind Orange County trucks Medicated, pixilated. I’m dodging palm husks
My head aches like lobster pinches, bayonets and trenches
Are you punk, or just-
Medicated, pixilated. Are u sucking up air behind Orange County trucks? Medicated, pixilated. We don’t get out much.
Medicated, pixilated. Sucking up air behind Orange County trucks Medicated, pixilated. I don’t get out much.
My head aches like lobster pinches, bayonets and trenches
Is this love, or just a bunch of molecules?
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6. |
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In the land of baristas, cholos and chicas
I played fetch with a dog who can't see
Lost my glasses to the airbrushed masses
now that dog’s fetching me
St. Francis of the desert, of concrete, of the train
On the phone with dad, he said "son you're acting strange”
Hey! Francis! We're doing fine.
Got classics in our queue but never the time
Updated my phone, but can't find a map to get home
Fellow sinners suck frozen dinners, preheat our teeth for the bread
Hotel hygiene is one of my things, so keep your feet off the bed
Francis of the desert, of the woods and the rain
Patron of salvation and the big box chain
Hey! Francis! We're doing fine.
Got classics in our queue but never the time
Updated my phone, but can't find a map to get home
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7. |
Summer of Sam
01:58
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Sliced up on the sidewalk, hitlist done in red chalk
Summer of Sam don’t get me man!
Beauties snapping selfies on the beach.
Creepers dropping roofies in their drinks
Summer of Sam don’t get me man!
Leave me alone, I’m on holiday. Summer of Sam.
Deadbeat dad at the laundry mat
Gentle cycle, rough night
Leave me alone, I’m on holiday. Summer of Sam.
Summer of Sam don’t get me man! Summer of Sam don’t!
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8. |
Transit Strike
02:21
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You're sleeping with December ghosts, snow bones.
I’m drowning in bathtub gin, sick skin
We buried our teeth in the wicked west
You led us down only to drown in the water.
We joke around sending clowns to the slaughter
You're sleeping with December ghosts, snow bones.
I’m sinking in bathtub gin, and your sick skin
We buried our teeth in the wicked west!
You led us down only to drown in the water.
We joke around laughing clowns to the slaughter
Stop these mighty jolts, soundbites and night frights.
And this transit strike
Is it a waste of time, down at the bottom?
This transit strike is keeping me here all night
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9. |
Lucite Wands
03:29
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I got a busted up nose and a jar full of cliches
Little white lies from Detroit down to Delray
Tell me what you want, and we'll take it.
The lucite wands are gone
Stranded in Venice with the bums and the fleas
They both want my blood but I'm just a tease
I'd sell my soul to have a soul.
The lucite wands are gone
Abbot Kinney won't you make up your mind? Sometimes you're so ridiculous I think it's a crime. Chill bros and the housekeeper are soaking up rays. Yoga mat on a Harley and Botox for days
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10. |
John Huston's Grave
02:54
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Egg yolk and sweet milk. Chain mail and silk.
We boiled our bones in the trees
Armed to the teeth, we soiled the sheets
in diminished returns and obscenities
So goddamn your liver, that dry LA river
Think of all the money you’ll save
when you meet me at John Huston’s grave
Think of all the small hearts you’ll break
Saw a Bruja on the lawn. Her daughter waved a lucite wand
Hiding from the stepdads and their criminal cologne
Let me prove I’m not a flyover state
another bum tone on your company phone
Building inroads to your bedside
Zombie Bonnie, Franken Clyde
So goddamn your liver, that dry LA river
Think of all the punchlines we’ll fake
when you meet me at John Huston’s grave
Think of all the cliches we’ll make
Swipe me if you like me
Click on my icon if you give a damn
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SKY CHEFS Los Angeles, California
Somewhere in Los Angeles there’s a cluttered garage studio lovingly dubbed the Whack Ark. Inside, surrounded by wobbly tape machines, Craigslist castoffs, and an old iMac named Gozer, Dale Nicholls writes and records as Sky Chefs.
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