Shade of Red

by Brendan Bonsack

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1.
04:23
2.
03:11
3.
4.
5.
(free) 04:58
6.

credits

released April 13, 2012

With Chrissy Misso

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Clockwork Monkey Melbourne, Australia

Folk noir for modern primates.

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Track Name: Shade of Red
In this room, nothing's cured - there was no disease
Hold fixed your cold jacket
Retract your shoulders - you see?
Are you reminded of John's Glass Onion,
Did you want all this to be a dream
I remember, saw you twist a blade, saw you so fragile - don't see me.

This shade of red befits the flight of feeble power
That ownership exiting the room like a breath.

In this room savor this last, this time
The comfort of desire you know will outrun boredom
I know we'd like to see this as a murky subterfuge
But we're fools, you know, we're innocents
You know this ain't like a film.

This morning listlessness upholds that sense of power,
That ownership, unspoken, winds up like a toy.

In this room I'm aware of the hum of the water, the fridge,
The distant traffic
In this room, I count the crinkles in the sheets, the smudges on the mirror
Our metered breathing, riding above the dearth of words -
They fell, the fools, they lost connection
The preceded us...

This shade of red befits the flight of feeble power
That ownership exiting the room like a breath.
Track Name: Ketchup
Curve the edges up to something smooth and safe
I've arms for these clothes,
A trail of sleep within my wake.
The plunger should go within an inch
beneath my breath,
your pencil hand for pumping
and your ear upon my chest.

Yes, my Jesus was a machine
And He kept me pure and clean
At the timbers I installed Him
So that I may hear the chinks.

If you're without sin then show me your pins
And I'll scratch your name into the ledger;
If you dream of my blood in a forty-day flood,
Lick your hands - it may only be ketchup.

I fly my bubble -
It's shiny, velour and stretched at the seams
My eyes are the glory holes to my soul
With God-only-knows in between.

If you're without sin then show me your pins
And I'll scratch your name into the ledger;
If you dream of my blood in a forty-day flood,
Lick your hands - it may only be ketchup.
Track Name: Psalm of the Mad Chimpanzee
If I had the eyes of the world
I would fashion Beauty Itself
So that all the boys and all the girls
Would chisel and scrape,
Hack and drill,
Purge and fill themselves
For a chance to wear its shadow.

See me, see me
Crawling into your tree
Speak to me, reach for me
I cannot see

O' give me the eyes of the world
And I'll teach the whole world to read
And repeat every word at the position of third
Scratch in the sand,
Stroke of the hand,
Fly in a web of demands
For a chance to utter the second

See me, see me
Crawling into your tree
Speak to me, reach for me
I cannot see

The eyes of the world need not weary
My compassion would craft them a lens
And all of the wo' and all of the men
Will ogle and ape
All those fearful shapes
Betroth-en to blood and the flame
For a chance to crawl out from their shadow.

See me, see me
Crawling into your tree
Speak to me, reach for me
I cannot see
Track Name: Happiness: is it just a chemical?
If happiness is just a chemical
Then sadness is the same
And they each have rival drugstores
On the streets inside your brain

And one claims to be a "warm gun in your hands"
And the other, one in somebody else's;
One comes in boxes and the other one in cans
And they both offer every choice of flavour.

Arms spread out in the grass,
I see the skin on the moon, all grey and forlorn;
Bare feet treading the pond,
I scoff at her dusty solitude:
Poor thing, circling, patiently waiting for a
Break in the spin, to be welcomed,
Or, with indignance and all hands, unwelcomed in.

Maybe happiness is just a chemical -
Well, they oughta turn it into fuel for our cars;
Define it, and mine it, process and refine it,
So you can't confuse a chuckle with a laugh.

And now with happiness so readily distilled,
Measured and most-correctly labelled,
In the sludge about our feet: envy and grief,
By-products rumbling and rumbling and rumbling...

Bubble bubble, toil and inconvenience,
Fire burn and burn in broad committment,
And the prince and princess,
they were wed and they lived
Chemically-balanced ever after.

Arms spread out in the grass,
I see the skin on the moon, all grey and forlorn;
Bare feet treading the pond,
I scoff at her dusty solitude:
Poor thing, circling, patiently waiting for a
Break in the spin, to be welcomed,
Or, with indignance and all hands, unwelcomed in.
Track Name: Here it is
Here is a table and here is a chair
Here is a head to hold up your hair
Here is a pencil and here is a sword
Which do you use to get what you want?
Here are two string hands

Here is an angel to dance on your sill
She says that she'll fall if your thoughts are she will
You've five days to catch her and two days to wish
That you just couldn't see her
But you keep making lists
And she's on every one.

Here it is - here it is -
Smoke in your fingernails, name in a tree
Shards of green grass on the back of your neck
Saying yes please - please, yes please
Here it is - here it is.

Here are your fingers with their fine loops of string,
Delicate nooses for memories of things
See how they multiply and savagely twist
Upwards to rub and to scratch at your wrists
While binding your thumbs

Here it is - here it is -
Track Name: A Time Traveler's Lament
There is no thing beautiful about a clock
Collectors of clocks do not understand time,
The way it stretches like tendrils, desperate for sunshine,
The way it schools and zig-zags,
Avoiding the jaws of Things that are Bigger -
Bigger Things, intent on nows and tomorrows,
Sweeping in and leaving trails of sorrows
And elusive joys, like breadcrumbs inviting you
Backwards and forward and forward and backwards.

No, there's nothing beautiful about a clock,
And if I had Time again, I'd make them all stop.

The gridsmiths of days know nothing of time,
All those calendar girls and men
And kittens and flowers, harbinging on death,
They're oh so benign inside the monster that drives them,
All scarred and withered and blind and lumbering
Between its next meal and a safe place to hide,
Its wounds leaking trails forth and behind it,
Behind it and forth.

No, there's nothing beautiful about a clock,
And if I had Time again, I'd make them all stop.