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183427106 LP

by Grant Livesay

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1.
Cumulus 03:53
{the first words on this album are “the first words on this album,” for any and all persons concerned robert magner a magnitude of gratitude i harbor for you showing up out of the black and taking my car keys away from me poetry and gin in the theater house with cooper chris and alyssa allison all i know son is that his son’s daughter’s name must have started with an a and hey those days of gta san andreas and absolut one-hundred with pineapple were the best of the rest we wasted in that place we never quite could quit befit and besot by idiots and flamboyant djarum faggots all over the sidewalks leading up to [loo tehr] a chair set atop [been suhn] i’ve been a bit disenchanted children chanting fuck barack in the barracks barreling down dorm corridors pounding on our blue barred doors and tossing green at the sky by the fistful squawking god forbid socialism november two thousand and eight roommate thanks for a few last months of shaking off reality between easy mac and the stock market crash a fair share of porn sites and double-oh-seven playstation two nights even though i kicked your ass every single time when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh rather oblique this all seems rather oblique, but even though i kicked your ass every single time when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh eighteen thirty four two seven one oh six all up in the mix bitch, as a freshman crescendo by the do’s and the don’ts blurring lines of this artistic pitch which sway wayward by the crane of the neck, sessions at the counseling center [reh knowl dah], laundry i meant to fold you, hold you jessica, pamela, christopher, grandfather you’re gone as the boy in these songs and i’m as calm as a lip balm never applied before biology bottles of pellegrino filled to the brim with vodka in the library likely feisty goat french presses at our desk for ulysses sestinas and seamus heaney, terrell, betsy, rest in peace didn’t know you that well, leave for the sea winston, fuck it i’m blasted charleston, fuck it i’m plastered but fuck it i’m the bastard of ceremonies awkward vocal timbre and less than random [feh ruhl] moaning as her necktie walks by i admire your suit and your loosely kempt composure but I don’t ever want to learn the double windsor even though i miss your kiss every single night when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh even though i paint you, miss, every single night when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh rather oblique this all seems rather oblique, but even though i miss your kiss every single night when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh rather oblique this all seems rather oblique, but even though i paint you, miss, every single night when the clouds roll in and summer is nigh i recall two thousand and eleven and sigh
2.
at times the leaves fall to early yet we seem to merely sigh and keep cursory when i was co-president of [eff em ell ay] [dubuhlyou effyou] who knew new recruit would noose herself tomorrow necktie or otherwise o'er dorm room door mother so dear, how do you feel about it now? junior vice for the tolerance hall and shit hit the fan when showers got clogged supposedly with semen so sex underneath faucets was outlawed crew oddly rude but i don't think fluid was the issue, see a friend of mine was raped in the same stall a year prior she wrote on the quote wall "you can't fag drag with a bicycle" her being publicly out i wasn't sure what the problem was with the latter but of course it garnered more chatter than the former welcome to the forest where we're tolerate any tree for its greener leaves be they he or she fir, oak, or cyprus but if you no pine don't climb o’er wrought iron fences and don't wine once you're within our parameters 'cause no crimes get reported to the newspapers and yes we accept sexual favors at the house down the street to keep underage consumption on the beat nod your head to the beat geed the greek letters already seized every brick off the quad no need to sneeze unless you ski down the slopes of university away from those damn townie dope fiends ostensibly to run down [air uhm arke] employees and send them thirty feet in the air closer to six feet under a wonder her lungs are asunder collar buttons bursting in the wake of our blunders i like all your neckties but i don't want to wear a necktie we die for the neckties sometimes i want to wear a necktie
3.
monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand half past the stroke of distraction fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished the grandfather in my grandmother’s kitchen no longer chims chim cheree at the hour and hour by hour charleston recedes to the sea while the water colors wave unto thee brush, brush, brush, brush movement as such and the ensuing hush trust, trust, trust, trust movement as such and the ensuing lust brush, brush, brush, brush movement as such and the ensuing hush lust, lust, lust, lust movement as such and the ensuing touch west end winston and paul said snort this sand before we fly to japan on the othership i don’t want you to bowing down to this once you make it best advice i ever took to the face quite literally puffing orange fuzz and shitting on the bathroom floor disgorging in the aforementioned shower stall the same one i passed out in after sleeping with constance chris i wish you could have been on this record i always wanted to rap like you, another reason why we should resist mixing art with academia meandering iambics as my swinging heart’s inertia i heard you, firstly, wordsmith, cursed by the infectious affection of a new york lectern lover hovering mothership upon which to harbor your ideas and project paintings of your poetry yet woe were we as our womenfolk muses left sniffing amphetamines on their verandas, chanting: i’m an open book if you know the url matter of fact blue ray just press play and please stop loving me (nah) just a little bit faster (just a little bit faster); i’m just a little bit plastered (i'm just a little bit plastered) i’m an open book if you know the url matter of fact blue ray just press play and please stop loving me (nah) just a little bit faster (just a little bit faster); i’m just a little bit plastered (i'm just a little bit...) i’m heading back to three-three-six, whether it’s a fifteen minute cruise or an unexpected kiss to drown in nostalgia alex i can’t shake the nightmares or the sex tips as i spit out my soul over b list synth beats laura i’m sorry i can’t keep from revealing surprises and my mind, well it sits antsy on each and every piece of your miniature furniture collection deadweight on your bedroom’s bookshelf i still keep the thank you card from your visit to the dentist on my window ledge and all the speed i hope i never take again resides under it crumbling epileptic fractions of happiness as the memories of you lying on a couch in the radio house or lounging in the [mahg] room for luncheons jesting about gin getting a pitchfork ten and grinning i’m an open book if you know the url matter of fact blue ray just press play and please stop loving me (nah) just a little bit faster (just a little bit faster); i’m just a little bit plastered (i'm just a little bit plastered) i’m an open book if you know the url matter of fact blue ray just press play and please stop loving me (nah) just a little bit faster (just a little bit faster); i’m just a little bit plastered (i'm just another niche rapper) brush, brush, brush, brush movement as such and the ensuing hush trust, trust, trust, trust movement as such and the ensuing lust brush, brush, brush, brush movement as such and the ensuing hush lust, lust, lust, lust movement as such and the ensuing touch rust, rust, rust, rust... (leaves fall with the color of corroded metal and memoirs rusted jugs of turpentine for dirty ears and my repertoire... repertoire... repertoire...)
4.
i used to muse on the sound of an artistic... i used to muse on the moon within your irises when we kissed outside and you kept your eyes open focus on the features in the creek locus while it rains of a coryphée in heat blue is at wrist of boxing glove lover made painting of music tree tattoo above hip said breathe mouth below tattoo said please blue is at wrist of boxing glove lover made painting of music tree tattoo above hip said breathe mouth above tattoo said leave tattoo above hip said breathe mouth below tattoo said please tattoo above hip said breathe mouth above tattoo said leave as i exhale betwixt your legs i just want to taste where language comes from cum on your face occasionally and love you like my heart never left this dexterous theft’s bereft chest pressed for bass and treble clefs lest the race for life’s pacemaker piece perfect tempo entail achievements of eternal rest… crest and trough, troubadour paint forlorn more discernible than waveforms there’s a great storm with all your whores’ eyes on the horizon from winston to charleston, there’s a great storm with all the world’s thighs open from winston to charleston bygones be tides, pause… orange mold mighty pervasive invading basement tile giggling at yonder god-forsaking beat maker making up lofty aesthetic ideals installed on three gigs of ram and a pile of rummage, condom wrappers fashioned makeshift night stand and rapping to mona lisa leave it be moaner groaning when the sun saturates stained black bed sheets seated on the same square feet bare feet flex upon before french one oh one oh one young lover in fifty with a motto so fit and so filthy fucking so many sons and daughters it seems, [huph mahn] zero seventeen dead crickets and cookie crumbs caked on my welcome mat for all your lusty lonely souls to find their way back mostly busty but i certainly posited my pencil dick on more than a few sternums i mention this sternly the walking dead ought to rest their knees occasionally carnal equinox and i tit-fucked through that whole premiere, amc, straight seasonally paid for plenty of dinners, edited infinite papers and kept a fair number of your progeny from the eternal gentry grateful? i think i’m just hateful and a fair number loved me this outward aura so comely… so come to me so come to me... before the moon falls from your eyes back down between your thighs.
5.
i don't mean to interrupt but yonder rupture upon her wrist is dancing for attention miss put the shiv down and shuffle your feet t died so recently and truthfully i've enough to write about right about now you're right handed so why slice into your right hand is this not a precision dance madam teary eyed and lisp prancing for attention well you've damn well got it please fucking stop it but more along the lines of let’s talk for a while after all we used to fuck for a while until well i damn well stopped it that's the shittiest april fool's day joke you said i was too high to know what day it was and walked away instead too bad it wasn't april then da da da hyacinth there sure is blood on your sunflower but i can't tell which ink is crying out more loudly as we tucked your arm espousing underneath your heart odd how we don't speak on that subject and so i kissed you last september sobriquet undressed, you let me touch your left breast in front of a bar on fourth street and somewhere underneath my drink i wondered if your sunflower had wilted
6.
Petrichor 03:26
monochromatic flow (what) for the indigo angels (shut up) i painted with a vast hand half-past the stroke of distraction (why are you still asking questions?) fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas (punch a hole in the wall) famished the grandfather in my grandmother's kitchen (well, it's raining outside) no longer chims chim cheree by the hour (we're not paying any attention) and hour by hour charleston recedes to the sea while the watercolors wave unto thee (you fuckers) with all i’ve seen and all whom i’ve been cliché it seems yet i scream: fuck you and your mans fuck you fuck you and your friends fuck you fuck you and your girls fuck you fuck you and your whole wide world/fuck you and this whole wry world they say wear your soul on your sleeve so i wore hoodies all year long to cover up the brevity my pink and un-inked biceps bore the lore of young man yet unwritten forever smitten spittin’ krishna for the pigeons eatin’ bojangles combos with vixens listen, the flow is legendary christopher, come back to me we were cut of a cloth that calls for mending from the tattoo of a needle and thread on your wrist left handed poetics popping narcotics goddammit we southern and all up in your daughters sippin’ on forties and reading john milton paradise lost fool i found it in her dorm room for a makeshift art porn shoot watching lucille bluth and blasting mars volta “soothesayer” in between shakespearean sonnets preferably one-eighteen, turn the page, you got it turn over, you know you go’n get it skeet and skat for sex phonetics skippity boop bow, shout out but don’t sing it cocaine love, you know we done did it erect explosion shameful and all y’all haters go by the way of gravity’s rainbow with all i’ve seen and all whom i’ve been cliché it seems yet i scream: fuck you and your mans fuck you fuck you and your friends fuck you fuck you and your girls fuck you fuck you and your whole wide world/fuck you and this whole wry world (if the mouth is trust but that shroud is a bluff then the flowers are trussed and if we’re loud enough if we’re loud enough…) what’d you do at nineteen? i had started drinking and commenced a shadow’s of amn lan party throwback with my sibling hamid hardest difficulty, perma-death no resurrection welcome to reality and sure i tried being single jeff recommended abstinence but there were lyrics to be written do you feel me? the ones dancing in the rain certainly did pain baptizing toner underneath their skin slee we sure had hella summers between your rollerblades and my sexcapades or whatsoever these days they call ‘em faux-artsy fodder for fecund penmanship and far too many lagers, pardon: next author is david foster wallace darling let’s read infinite jest and talk about it no joke not kidding can i get a bitch who is down to wear hoodies and riposte poetry in a mountain downpour over wine or just a golden molson nod to canada and holla for my androgynous ovate valhalla solemn persona as the public on my shoulder grey as the sky when god’s cup runneth over with all i’ve seen and all whom i’ve been cliché it seems yet i scream: fuck you and your mans fuck you fuck you and your friends fuck you fuck you and your girl fuck you fuck you and your whole wide world/fuck you and this whole wry world (the clouds erupt… the clouds erupt… and as the clouds erupt… and as the clouds erupt… )
7.
Hoodies No Shirt (free) 03:52
brush your trust away we're painting lust today i wear corduroy caps with tears in them and ten year old hoodies with the zippers missing prefer french kissing, and fringe intimacy with all your best friends' best friends listening, singing: hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt middles fingers to the sky, why? hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no... hoodies no shirt. harbinger binge bringer of the reckoning I reckon she should recognize rise and stop speculating surprise speckled with freckles and remnants of drunken intimates in time for a shower and breakfast crass legacy these queens next to me alas: fuck a quantize latency god’s great gift to mankind blessed be procrastination permeating adolescent to adult’s essence across the nation spacious: locked myself in a dorm room with tumblr porn and canned soup summation wine and enough rhyme online dictionary lists to oh shit there must be arsenic in the chicken coup truth: that’s bad broth tell her to scoff and quaff the squawk for the cock’s next batch of rich bitches brew fucking gourmet… fondue and yes, honestly I’m quite fond of fondling you. heckle me why don’t you: she with a hoodie unzipped no sweater for best access to breasts unfettered but let her keep her dignity, hands off such a tantalizing media trope… nope, hands off. cursed ruse: i do it for the nouns, verbs, and rampant mistresses uh… i do it for the love of words and beaucoup des bitches hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt middles fingers to the sky, why? hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no... hoodies no shirt. all bummed out album no pens ran the rhymes through a sieve without thought oral missive reference to that of being pensive in case you missed the particularly senseless. mistress no distress just plentiful listlessness a list of lustful businesses and frequent visits solicited by explicit appearances of remiss visages and diligent deference to cleavage provided by the aforementioned apparatus hoodie no shirt the maxim and fashion of your gratis and gracious am i grateful loquacious and so hateful enraged by these gratuitous demonstrations which i revel in vainglorious, irises drenched in “vinyl teargas” and forced anagrams fanned over panoramic landscapes of your sternum fanfare, dammit you worsen by the subsequent verse lurking amidst remembrance of when i had more songs at large than listeners by about a hundred and i have a hunch that this stone won’t quite roll you over or nigh get you naked at least obsession is all relative if there’s one thing i’ve learned it’s to never throw rocks without purpose hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt middles fingers to the sky, why? hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no shirt, hoodies no... hoodies no shirt.
8.
in a poetry workshop as a freshman my professor inquired for my opinion as to the current state of the medium i responded that the problem with modern art is, at best, today’s works are no more than tidbits of gold surrounded by shit gilded in silver; and that my endeavors were no exception they still aren’t… i’m still just throwing rocks i grant you god damn daughter-fucker giving heart as your namesake between art and the game play start and follow the more intriguing dialogue path seething among cervixes and worshiping diagrams of ass try again the load screen seems to work just as consistently in real life actually ashley you were fascinating long enough to man handle pan’s labyrinth then fade out through the rabbit hole jt has your painting of the rabbit hole and i sure hope he’s well same goes for you these days as i cough and i quell quaff and swell behind closed doors on gales failing slightly less than spectacularly the spectre in my mind pries with the wry slight “son you’re dying silently speak a little more have a fighting stance appropriate for an encounter where the mobs hold high resistance increase your chance of a critical misstep fall towards self-empathy from physical intimacy" aerie, baldur’s gate had your wings burnt off and david i swear you taught me so much the last thing you told me was to keep in touch with my obsessions and of course i haven’t spoken to you since let alone send any emails i don’t write poetry anymore now that christopher is gone it’s a shame apparently you used to live in dean’s house who was so supportive regardless of my addictions i should visit his office more often…
9.
as i toddler i threw rocks we all threw rocks i'm still throwing rocks we're all just throwing rocks at each other ooh samantha don’t you be that way but thanks anyways for sleeping with me at your mom’s place i had a wet dream on your air mattress after times square sushi bourbon and as a matter of fact bitch: i hope you get laid often i hope the stars shine down on you but i know i couldn’t remember your birth sign if my life depended on it and i don’t mean to start shit but girl... astrology is for those who can’t handle the real world and i hope the big city’s kind to you and i hope that my little dick reminds you of it kindness, that is kindness that is kind of sad that the one thing you lacked in your life was kindness you bitch and i’m saying this out of courtesy cuz ooh for a minute girl you meant the world to me and now when i gaze towards the sky i wish i’d just lied and fucked you one last time... one last time. as a toddler i upended sunflower pots and wore them atop my head as hats not much has changed since... not much has changed.
10.
epileptic fractions of happiness epileptic fractions of happiness epileptic fractions of happiness epileptic fractions of happiness epilectic fractions of happiness (why) for the weakest track on this whole record (what) didn't quite rhyme (lilting like a banshee) kind of funny... (so reprimand me) i heard somewhere we laugh so we don’t cry if that’s true, then at the center of my universe i am the funniest man alive (lackluster lyrics... lackluster lyrics...) she wasn’t wrong when she said i didn’t write because i wanted to fight it composing this that is, i wouldn’t call it music tragic? no, just a lonely egocentric sob story; so world please ignore me i don’t want to be heard and how I deplore that word quite the professional noun "i" is indeed: my word and yours. one capitalistic aspect we all can share on a massive scale devoid of economic hierarchy or language barriers fuck i wanted to take a ferry to long island in january freeze inside of lady liberty and then fuck you again and fuck you moronic simpletons, these amblings were not meant for your fresh new kicks and expensive desensitized bliss and fuck no this is not poetry, obvious to anyone who matters artistically spatter my spittle on this lcd screen on which forever i am misspelling lysergic acid diethylamide acronym foreseen? probably not, that’s why it’s humorous line. catch the joke? yep. that’s a fucking humorous line. i heard somewhere we laugh so we don’t cry if that’s true, then at the center of my universe i am the funniest man alive i heard somewhere we laugh so we don’t cry if that’s true, then at the center of my universe i am the funniest man alive (lackluster lyrics... lackluster lyrics...) oft deft but most times either deaf or in debt minus those last two. well, sometimes those last two but I would like to think I heard every last goddamn word she said. wouldn’t we all? too bad. the forced indentions of ill-placed and worse interpreted intentions are the banal brush strokes that have ruined modern art. so call me brilliant now because I just indirectly criticized myself but am quite cognizant of having done so… and now he’s not rhyming and simultaneously speaking in third person. the audacity, his subtle pausing allowing us time to paint in whatever we so desire, a maximalist minimalist we’ll call him – paltry – hang him up in the met while he hangs himself in his own house by age twenty-three in some estranged homage to ian curtis: turgid. he heard somewhere we laugh so that we don’t cry if that’s true, then at the center of his universe he is the funniest man lamenting i heard somewhere we laugh so we don’t cry if that’s true, then at the center of my universe i am the funniest man alive (lackluster lyrics... lackluster lyrics...) please now banshee won’t you kill me (darling), i am so tired of laughing please now christopher won’t you kill me (winston), i am so tired of crying please now rachel won’t you kill me (charleston), i am so tired of singing please now samantha won’t you kill me (yonkers), i am so tired of breathing please now laura won’t you kill me (claire), i am so tired of painting please now grant won’t you kill me (why?), i am so tired of being... (alive)
11.
brush brush brush brush movement as such and the ensuing hush trust trust trust trust movement as such ant he ensuing lust brush brush brush brush movement as such and the ensuing hush lust lust lust lust movement as such and the ensuing touch (i can't breathe) monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand half past the stroke of distraction fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished; the grandfather in my grandmother's kitchen no longer chims chim cheree by the hour and hour by hour charleston recedes to the sea while the watercolors wave unto thee please let me go please let me go please let me go please let me go (stupid drunk to do this take) when the rum flows run i write best used to rely on robitussin and rejection, though all i wrote were nausea and obnoxious sex seekers betwixt class and blessed self-dejection: the rest is less than vested interesting. locks on dorm doors. god bless the ones who literally stayed the fuck out. as a fallen sophomore i was diagnosed with h-one-n-one and fell into bed with a young woman who steeped me shit tea and honey the year before when I was ill. she made me the same tea a year later to cope with indigestion and it still tasted terrible. upon recovering i ran to the woods where the drow drooped aplenty and briefly courted a charlestonian chevalier of photography. my collegiate career seems marked by the court and french failures. there were bad beers and a cock corset in saluda plenty of pictures quite frankly I hope I'm never tagged in until this album comes out and i… stop painting stop painting (indigo) stop painting (angels) (salute you easels, prepare your palettes) stop painting (for perhaps we can but paint ourselves...) stop painting (stop painting) (into the palimpsests of nostalgia we must delve...) stop painting... (stop painting, no)... claire you're incredibly interesting you remind me of what i wanted charleston to be the new bridge has pylons in the sky and violinists play outside the old slave market charles came to me when i returned from charleston and i still keep the delsym nurse richard slipped me in henderson it reminds me of a birthday present for a girl i met from charleston i got stupid gin drunk with my cousin's husband in charleston the beach by wild dunes smells like shit and nick mentioned i wasn't living up to my potential my parent's lived it up on their honeymoon at wild dunes and when charles painted his room we used the resort towel to soak up bossa nova dripping like pylons from the sky and claire i pray i don't paint you to be anything like charleston but dear i’m afraid i may paint you to be everything like charleston monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand half past the stroke of distraction fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished the grandfather in my grandmother's kitchen no longer chims chim cheree by the hour and hour by hour charleston recedes to the sea whilst the watercolors wave unto thee.
12.
live for the low fidelity sample and church camp nostalgia collegiate seraglios and old salem decaf coffee beeswax candles methodical moravian doctrine relative hymns for haecceitism and the modern hagiarchy the current student body sunflowers hungering for affections returned from your amorous plundering lightly salted, sweetheart you’ve picked my ribs apart suckled sour bone lonely in just under an hour circumvention seems secondary to digging and in spite of my circumcised mind i prefer to take the dive willingly dip then plunge pen asunder and ascribe preamble to the body before basking inside metaphor play and burst capillaries enamel clenched as fingertips upon parchment sheets white ‘till soiled; anon: for me your name is "laura" – moniker opal a trope for cordial social metonymy north a grey impalpable state betwixt new york and pennsylvania lady mary liberty bastion tower from joyce to antiquity a fiction: mythological desire for the unascertainable, a curse on women men children and your anonymity a fantasy – worsen – grant that we may all love whom which we cannot name in person. the bleak midwinter has been here since our beginning and your love feast will be held regardless when december’s red haired moon swoons in the lamplight breathing come to me and hysterical i’m coloring the moon and hysterical the hyacinth become chrysanthemums upon my canvas blood from wrist to fist cyanosis to crimson to a wine of grape delsym twitching at the bewitching hour: brushing this monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand half past the stroke of distraction fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished the grandfather in my grandmother’s kitchen no longer chims chim cheree by the hour and hour by hour, charleston recedes to the sea while the watercolors wave unto thee you fuckers. louis knew, perhaps that's why he gave me a moog which should rhyme with rogue who brew a smooth double mocha porter that drowned a korg drum machine accountable for a number of these sonic smatterings between cheap merlot and freshly roasted espresso beans... bitch.
13.
summer object of affection left for philadelphia our final action was watching a youtube video of a duck desiring grapes and i think i know now how gandolfini felt brush brush brush brush trust trust trust trust brush brush brush brush lust lust lust touch mind if i touch? sinking teeth into the ink garnishing your epidermis when you ride me in reverse until i hurt some nights jaclyn i miss licking cigarettes out of your throat and your consistently supportive art composure the most dangerous game devil ever did play was convincing himself he was not the devil and the most heinous game i ever did play was convincing myself that i was not the devil spit fire lyrics in a pin stripe suit for a rapt attention audience of you, a microphone and cinder-block walls between benders and calls as the mini-fridge mildew accrues darling your shawl seems a mite bit mishandled quite cold outside, cop a flannel october is laughing and i swear to rhymed rapping i would break form to take you to saluda who would miss us, laura? just for a weekend of pinot noir blue ridge park-way off i-twenty-five for the day then back to the colleton to spark like we did when we were children wholesale at rosedale pabst blue ribbon pilsners i feel you, should’ve sealed the deal with the truth but tongue-tied, no lie, i think i’m evil and so this song is dedicated to bad wine (corkscrew) and all of my collegiate concubines (just for you) sinking teeth into the ink garnishing your epidermis when you ride me in reverse until i hurt some nights jaclyn i miss licking cigarettes out of your throat and your consistently supportive art composure the most dangerous game devil ever did play was convincing himself he was not the devil and the most heinous game i ever did play was convincing myself that i was not the devil went from hand knit black beanies to a forest folk five panel if i could do it again i would have done more drugs and died before i could have wrote this album christopher’s in charleston and laura darling i think i may be your christopher wishing that these sentiments would manifest in song or a bottle of your finest chianti remind me why i'm obsessed with the mountains and the fountain of youth i bathed in in your presence essence of reminiscence festering in my mind’s eye saluda’s moon is shining vexed vespers of inspiration on these spirits rearing up out of winter coats and i suppose chortling a smorgasbord of whorish infidelities: “i bet he will lose her, i bet fella’s losing it hella branded by his vying muse’s ruse musically the devil is in the debrief truthfully why can’t you just be who i paint you to be while loving me for exactly who i am? ‘cuz i’m running out of canvas.” sinking teeth into the ink garnishing your epidermis when you ride me in reverse until i hurt some nights jaclyn i miss licking cigarettes out of your throat and your consistently supportive art composure the most dangerous game devil ever did play was convincing himself he was not the devil and the most heinous game i ever did play was convincing myself that i was not incredible
14.
(i'm afraid mermaids nobody is fucking singing to you scuttle hey hey i don't hear singing where's my anesthesia when are we going to spark like we did as kids no singing quick stop these are our voices) imma smoke with my sleeves rolled up leaning out the window straight scuttling. and we’ll all smoke with our sleeves rolled up leaning out of windows straight scuttling, scuttling hi i’m your average generation y rapper twenty-three years old cold and of course i cry out through my laughter to bold to come clean say what i mean so i mean to keep saying nothing on to next chapter the next stanza the next strophe the next… ellipses drowning in a sea of my own inability to truthfully see i’m in love with a woman with a name just the same as you in love with another someone with another name playing another “what if…” lonely late night game wondering if i came clean could you ever feel the sanguine february breeze at four-oh-three in the morning cleansing my four door cab-horse naked in the lamplight but it’s snowing outside so… imma smoke with my sleeves rolled up leaning out the window straight scuttling. and we’ll all smoke with our sleeves rolled up leaning out of windows straight scuttling, scuttling stuttering blundering but with the gusto of a blunderbuss delving through the bluffs dying for a diamond in the rough as of yet uncut until a succubus bares her bare bust …what the fuck… and do i dare try sushi though it’s been prepared wry culinary beauty or should i just share my fear of impunity honestly requite is really quite new to me foolishly or it would be if it was returned of that i am certain or at least prefer to presume when i don’t swoon laving in a watery grave of perfume under each and every new nude moon that i find romanticizing if only for the time being i am able to ascribe meaning but that second seems long past resolve and love, “that is not what i meant, at all” so... imma smoke with my sleeves rolled up leaning out the window straight scuttling. and we’ll all smoke with our sleeves rolled up leaning out of windows straight scuttling, scuttling scuttling scuttling scuttling scuttling.... straight scuttling scuttling.
15.
Dead Weight 03:48
monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand half past the stroke of distraction fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished, the grandfather in my grandmother’s kitchen no longer chims chim cheree by the hour and hour by hour, charleston recedes to the sea while the watercolors wave unto thee the radio made me want to shoot art porn but instead i just wrote this album music, you sexy thing, you’re too far gone here i am writing just another album delilah you delightful black dahlia persistent diatonic diatribe of my existence between thighs of mine eighty-eight ivories fairing tides of sonic tincture on the song long lost forgotten seas of these unfortunates warships of intimacy worshiping the larceny of heartstrings do you follow me? down to the river to prey upon all the malleable minded painters at bay basking in their own dead weight and hopelessly in love with one another but far too fearful to stutter uh… uh… christened miss listener… hey, i think i’d like to fuck you or at least play grand piano in your presence after all to some degree the two of you are synonymous languidness painted on an indigo dress your monochrome monotone damn near angelic the radio made me want to shoot art porn but instead i just wrote this album music, you sexy thing, you’re too far gone here i am writing just another album nigh time i let my locks tumble sampson so keen as he fumbles key into cunt so sumptuous internet, thanks for teaching me to fuck so thoroughly yet aging cyber deity, you worry me when winter’s been here since the beginning we’re but disembodied bits of some snow-fallen god resembling the seasonal shit from this self-proclaimed heavenly flock of pigeons listless, fixated on target painting entertaining but the entrance fee and severely tainted by the training be it karma, craft, or creed some fixed combination of the three a trinity enclosed by the deadbolt artistic sexuality lost inside the womb of human language negligence of the flame is love’s inferno: temporal regret odd self-replicating hellish double helix when the last ember dies i hope you scream phoenix the radio made me want to shoot art porn but instead i just wrote this album music, you sexy thing, you’re too far gone here i am writing just another album
16.
brush brush brush brush movement as such and the ensuing hush trust trust trust trust movement as such and the ensuing lust brush brush brush brush movement as such and the ensuing hush lust lust lust lust movement as such and the ensuing touch hook hook hook hook huh huh huh huh hoof hoof hoof hoof hooves to the turf and claws out by birth who the fuck wasn’t plucked from the tuck above a rupture stuck nine months prior thrust with all the fervor luck could muster amidst the fuss of coitus and blusterous transfer of love curds? in other words: not you - madam imbued with freshly-spewed fondue, much ado canoe in the cavernous break through cap screw came to and withdrew, thank you point of view pornography oddly ensuing odyssey of our progeny fondling wantonly in their younger more sumptuous years rabbit ears and souvenirs below the neck line found womanhood in the sanctity of saddle so get off your fucking high horse and straddle hook hook hook hook huh huh huh huh hoof hoof hoof hoof hooves to the turf and claws out by birth oooh move your feet now baby (go'n 'head and move your feet) i said oooh, move your feet now lady, lady (don't you wait for me) oooh move your feet now baby (go'n 'head and move your feet) i said oooh, move your feet now lady (and don't you wait for me) succumbing to banality’s overbearing weight we oft feel forced to embrace the least flagrant of the uninteresting destitution bound artist’s destiny sympathy transmitted disappointments cancel my next epidemic these women prefer digital pyrotechnics and lukewarm sex techniques. yes, heaven has a brand new haircut betwixt your hips and well below your waistline mind if i snap chat our strip session face times? as long as i can taste the brine leaning dangerously o’er watercolors painting isle nigh suffice to say seize the day and sigh thy blank canvas naked and bald as a baby, so lady point your toes to the sky hook hook hook hook (go'n 'head and move your feet) huh huh huh huh (don't you wait for me) hoof hoof hoof hoof (go'n 'head and move your feet) hooves to the turf and claws out by birth (and don't you wait for me) for my retired friend infatuation i apologize for speaking so sexually in cypher but the you i painted will understand i’ve colored you so you could stand on a pedestal in my celestial hortus conclusus dormus mea crescent animi florum groomed ‘til we eclipse traumatic canvas i’ve become less a bastion of habit than a schematic for addicts let’s just pretend twenty eleven never happened or anything since for that matter what matters is you’re the most beautiful and i’m a nigh goddamned gardener pruning verses for turgid lyric-writing juvenilia sunflowers whose parents professed romantic bacchanalia to hyacinths kissing penning du fu in the porch-light erudite highly unlikely their front yards and footprints were rather unsightly but i hope you live forever and i die sometime in the night rain yesterday following ten glasses of wine raised to all our former friends who didn’t make it and all the world’s children raised to all our former friends who didn’t make it and all the world’s children... who have fallen. breathe.
17.
daedalion, i'm sorry for your daughter i saw her pitch sunflower off of cliff parnassus; hawk’s beard and bless you resemblance is an unmanned rescue, adieu liakoura perches on my veranda sympathetic hypothetical she despondent in the morning lute strings lackadaisical as hummingbird wings singing o’er frame vestigial suicide notes: tears doting drying on a singular tissue tossed in wicker basket razor in a rose thicket dry summer pyre valium expired underneath mother’s teaspoon heirloom tarnished sorry father shouted who gives a fuck about the varnish? i doubt he will forgive himself and if i do kill myself it’s better for the writing, ironic… from her notebook, reciting, she said to me: “there will never be another until yesterday i'm sure there were several,” and so we placed a picture of her next to the aged green rocking chair; that one with mismatched legs porch bound by the chrysanthemums and hyacinth she detested… that she detested… but wrote alongside, regardless hyacinth she detested… that she detested… but wrote alongside, regardless. (there will never be another until yesterday i'm sure there were several and so we placed a picture of her by... )
18.
for the fallen… we are the whoreson dogs, boards and bawds, let’s to music... welcome to the department of medicine where we serve bibles and alcohol when neither of them will help you at all check books or diaries go ahead, draw your pens and fucking die for me welcome to the department of medicine where we serve cigarettes and adderall when neither of them will help you at all love-struck and trifling go ahead, paint your sins and fucking die with me syllable syllable syllable villainous feeling it philosophy at four in the morning yawning dancing storytelling falling on swords of these quandaries yelling fella i’ve fallen heaven is this hell i inhabit crawling bawling out my soul to an audience pondering pandering fantasy bantering on and on and on and on pause for a sip of blue moon and orange old boy mouthing sympathy for mister vengeance, torrid torn between heaney’s “two lorries” digging for torment it seems pouring over paintings faintly resembling life’s plight chris, sometimes i wish you were close so the password on my iphone is the same one that yours was certainly futile worrisome and were i someone else stronger i might have stood by you longer nonetheless nothing’s left once we strip all the color off the canvas underneath winston’s trembling lunar lantern in a rampage of rampant fancying that if the pen is a sword for lyrical lunges then the time is nigh i plunge upon it welcome to the department of medicine where we serve bibles and alcohol when neither of them will help you at all check books or diaries go ahead, draw your pens and fucking die for me welcome to the department of medicine where we serve cigarettes and adderall when neither of them will help you at all love-struck and trifling go ahead, paint your sins and fucking die with me new york knows you’re only beautiful when you’re broken charleston knows you’re only glowing if you’re toking winston knows how to hide their homeless and their hungry while i am loathe to admit here i am at twenty-something still unemployed even though they’ve doubled my salary daily ever since i entered this business raking dead leaves half-a-decade later dale, our best friends didn’t even listen to “synaesthetic experiment” and nathan, you were right about the world yes, we’ve failed our own generation fuck their terrorism and their economy we’ve forgotten how to build communities lost the will to stand together and truthfully i don’t know how to be intimate anymore the same night we smoked camel nines on your porch i ended up in bed with a woman who i didn’t have sex with then or any of the other several times i’d been next to her she fell asleep as i read sestinas of crayons and coalmen aloud all these paintings seem to be of indigo clouds repeating but with the exact same leaning that perhaps i too, should be leaving… welcome to the department of medicine where we serve bibles and alcohol when neither of them will help you at all check books or diaries go ahead, draw your pens and fucking die for me welcome to the department of medicine where we serve cigarettes and adderall when neither of them will help you at all love-struck and trifling go ahead, paint your sins... and then rise with me.
19.
Deciduous 03:00
monochromatic flow for the indigo angels i painted with a vast hand, half past the stroke of distraction: fraction of a clenched fist misprinting friction on a canvas famished the grandfather in my grandmother’s kitchen no longer chims chim cherree by the hour and hour by hour charleston recedes to the sea while the watercolors wave unto thee nine and we jostled by the waterside behind willow springs court the night before a sunrise easter service in god’s acre at old salem, songs of nature’s nascence after infants skipping stones impatient jim wrote of gingkoes in god’s acre autumn laura and i walked through god’s acre during autumn after chris and i had walked through god’s acre one autumn and i think i lost it all in the autumn queer how loves and laughs of yesteryear become tears while the jeers and jests of retrospect are in fact requiems, cleverly masked regrets, joke prose of children’s’ post-traumatic lament: if my sword is a pen then i have fallen upon it throwing rocks into the creek we tossed a volley of death upon an unsuspecting family of ducklings i broke one's neck and watched it drown that's why a decade later you held me down and touched me while i pleaded with you not to throwing rocks into the creek we tossed a volley of death upon an unsuspecting family of ducklings i broke one's neck and watched it drown that's why a decade later you held me down and tried to love me while i pleaded with you no to nineteen and unwarranted a sophomore virgin when he groped my cock forcibly firm and i’m sure his passion was genuine yet this unrequited intimate liaison has defaced my whole existence but underneath great pain is greater perseverance (if you dig) serving a life sentence in a littoral indeterminate prison (if you live) of your own painting, mauve of your own making between cerulean wrist and blood of your own fists spraying praying that the palimpsests weren’t worth saving (they weren't) bathing in a pool of foolish uniform shading (yes we were) searching if when the turpentine is only pulling off this one color, then why am i so surprised by these pictures i've uncovered? throwing rocks into the creek we tossed a volley of death upon an unsuspecting family of ducklings i broke one's neck and watched it drown that's why a decade later you held me down and fucked me while i pleaded with you not to throwing rocks into the creek we tossed a volley of death upon an unsuspecting world full of ducklings we broke their necks and watched them drown that's why. for any and all persons concerned, the last words on this album are "the last words on this album"}

about

Dear friends,

Actually finishing and releasing 183427106 LP to the world is quite possibly the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life. It's just another album in a watercolor sea of rusting sonic internet swarm, but like a phone number, a numerical password, an IP address, or even an age - it's a little piece of arbitrariness that stands for the infinite infinitesimal of individuality within our digitized generation: one tiny piece, likely to be lost amongst its myriad peers, that happens to stand for me.

My younger brother painted what would become this album's cover one night on the wall of The Gales House randomly when he moved in and it inspired me to go back and rap over these shitty beats, because nobody else would. I wrote these instrumentals in while I was enrolled as an undergrad (and two during my single semester as a post-grad taking a single class just because) at Wake Forest University, some dating as far back as mid 2010. I figured they could either rot eternally on external hard drives, or I could throw them onto the internet with hardly any promotion. Nearly all of the verses were written in mid-to-late 2013, over a year after I graduated, as observational rants. These stories are portrayed through perspective of an obsessive, frustrated romantic recounting his hypothetical collegiate experience and his disorienting move into a non-academic world with the rest of his generation, and without a place to call home or any shoulders to lean on. In some ways this record has taken just under five months to complete, and in some ways it has taken the better part of half a decade to fully manifest. And in some ways, while I'll stick to art always being removed from the artist once presented to the world at large, I've never composed a more personal and honest body of work.

That said, all characters and entities appearing in this work are grounded firmly in the ever-eroding turf of reality. Any and all associations with businesses, organizations, institutions, places and persons living and dead discussed in the lyrics on this album are purely intentional. But none of that is actually important. What is important is that you are constantly discovering yourself, and that in some way this record facilitates a continuation of that process, always for better and occasionally helping you to learn from past indiscretions. If you are offended by anything on this record, then good. I hope it's because you know that life is to be lived, loved, and never taken for granted. If you are mentioned by name on this record in any capacity, it's because I love you, you mean the world to me, and I wouldn't be here without you.

I'd be lying if I said this record wasn't written for myself. But it was also written for all of you, for all of us. Nonetheless, I'd like to somewhat informally dedicate this whole goddamn smorgasbord emotional train-wreck of an album to Dale Ruffin. Because. And because never has a project made me so thankful. Because never has a project helped me realize how much love there really is in this life. In our generation. Our life. Ten glasses raised to the living, to all our friends who didn't make it, and to all the world's children - those generations to follow us. Fallen or otherwise, I have faith that we will all stand together once again. That's why.

Sincerely yours,
Grant Wescoat Livesay

credits

released January 28, 2014

All instrumentation, lyrics, and production by Grant Livesay.
Cover art painted by Charles Ramsey.
Cover art photographed and edited by Grant Livesay.

Instrumentation written and recorded at Wake Forest University.
Lyrics/vocals written and recorded at The Colleton.
Mixed and mastered by Grant Livesay at The Gales House.

A Fella approved endeavor.
Thin Product Shun. 2014
All lyrics and instrumentals copyright of Grant Wescoat Livesay.
All rights reserved.

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Grant Livesay Winston Salem, North Carolina

dogged sonic diary curating hobbyist otherwise doppelgänging as producer, arranger, composer, multi-instrumentalist, lyricist, vocalist, recording engineer, vocal engineer, compiler, mixing engineer, and mastering engineer -





truth is in the shambles of i am -
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