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lyrics

Do What?
Everybody I've ever loved
loved my doppelganger more.
Nothing much to do with me--
I'm neither boor nor bore,
but he is everything I'm not
and too easily ignored,
and that is part of his vague appeal,
and shade is its own reward.
Confusion is the currency
of these psychological sins,
and on the scales of her desire
the money always wins.
Our hopes are as substantial
as the words beneath our breath:
mine, Please go fuck yourself.
Hers, Have a nice death!

Tarry not for the day of saints,
nor rage for the world to burn,
for your lot is of ash and dung
and the turning of the worm.
Quaff and quibble, purge and spurn,
drink of it deep and wholly--
come dying-day the worm will turn
and shall not keep it holy.

Too much of anything
is hell on the heart.
Not enough of everything
which sets us apart.
Too much of everything
to keep us apart,
not enough of anything
which makes for a start.

You came in with a gift
and said "Open it if you dare."
But why today? Why such a gift
and why such a vacant stare?
You said, "Open it now
and tomorrow and forevermore,
but never open boxes
if you cannot close a door."

Do what?

Do what?

I hold the stranger's bedroom key,
I have the stranger's eyes.
I have the comprehension
of my own foreseen surprise.
And now I lay me down to sleep
amidst the stranger's night,
and sing ophidian lullabies
against the hissing of the night.

Tarry not for the day of saints,
nor rage for the world to burn,
for our lot is of ash and dung
and the turning of the worm.
Cough and quibble, purge and spurn,
drink of it deep and wholly--
come dying-day the worm will turn
and shall not keep it holy.

Too much of anything
is hell on the heart.
Not enough of everything
which sets us apart.
Too much of everything
to keep us apart,
not enough of anything
which makes for a start.

Unmade mascots teem in pack
at the hollow doors of laughter;
and every one that came before
returns the morning after.
For all that we have struggled for
will fade upon the siren
that signals our running plunge
back into an age of iron.
You're the insect in my dreams,
a cocoon in silk and fleshes,
that vanishes when morning strikes
the dance of our caresses.
I can hear you clicking
from the blackness inside my shoes
and so I put them on and walk
and sing these ludic blues.

credits

from Backroads to Owltown, released January 1, 2008

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Tony Arnold Florida

Art Rock.

Psychedelic Progressive.

Soundscapes.

Instrumental.

Rustic Funk.

Space Exotica.

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