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An Impressionist's Thumb

by Monkey Typing Pool

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1.
They were sprung unto the world as good and gracious spheres of gentle warm. Their height and mass did not exceed two standard deviations o’er the norm. They want to rock’n’roll till 2 a.m.—it’s notarized on these here forms. They’re more popular than that guy where, in his father’s house, are cramped and tiny dorms. They’ll only catch the slower rabbits, but they’ll surround and firmly nudge your clock. They’re Little Audio Sparkler and the Slightly Scary Gentlemen of Rock. They were born to trot and jog, to go unshaved, and join in fun disorder. Their school was out for weeks when its librarian found cracks and weakened mortar. They party like it’s 1953 in their maroon and rusted four-door. Their angel drew the cartoon on page 47 of the newsstand’s new ‘New Yorker’. The clock struck one, but glancingly, and missed the others, hick’ry dick’ry dock. They’re Little Audio Sparkler and the Slightly Scary Gentlemen of Rock. They’ve suffered napalm hamstring tears and scratchy fever they’re blaming on the drizzle. Their velveteen ground-level semidetached apartment just got shelled by Viscount Missile. (Ooh-ooh-ooh la-la, voulez-vous crochet?) But if they don’t thrive (they’re staying alive), (Survivront…) they won’t lie down to drive (they’ll survive) (Ne se couchent…) or use the wrong fork and knive (Mauvaise couteau…) to eat Belgian endive. (Manger endive…) They’ll only catch the slower rabbits, but they’ll surround and firmly nudge your clock. They’re not Me-First and the Please-Sir-May-I-Have-Some-Mores, or The Tallest Man on the Block. They’re Little Audio Sparkler and the Slightly Scary Gentlemen of Rock.
2.
Another match is burnt to ash, another weakened cocktail drunk, another jukebox echo lost in smoke and haze. A pen erasing, tracing lines, a silhouetted window strung with lights from outside; blocks away a stray dog bays. Even where it’s night, some lovers long to shout for June— Stephin Merritt writes another song about the moon. A flight of stairs, a broken clock, teacups, Chinese gongs, a ukulele on the wall, a strand of rope. An empty glass, an ashtray full… another hundred songs… a rhyming dictionary, and an old brown coat. Leaving there, it’s light, and others throng about too soon— Stephin Merritt writes another song about the moon.
3.
The dead Bob Dylan sings a Geiger counter whose slow peaks graph falling night The dead Bob Dylan hears the cypress shiver, reads the words the keen wind writes The dead Bob Dylan knows the stones, coast to coast, build a tower underground The dead Bob Dylan never bleeds—angel seeds sprout from dusty cowboy sounds The times are unchanging now Answers fall as the wind dies down
4.
Let's borrow the money, Nagata snoring like a credit card Quick, put on your boots and jacket, adjust the appearance of this display I said, a proven faction was created, seven days to seven. Get the game out of your weaknesses, tell me the details of this lake I did not eat, I did not clean I walked away before I removed it I did not eat, I did not clean They decided before I arrived He bought a phone just for pictures it was deleted before I saw it But to my surprise, I was arrested you must pour before you arrive It's true, it shook my application— this damper is included Drain the water if you wish to, dry it in a beautiful spring I did not eat... Check out anti-water exercises He got the money, then I went there I want to put them in touch with the deceiver Lean forward and hope for anything... There are saviors in the house There are saviors in the house Please use my name when you release the disc There are saviors in the house I did not eat, I did not clean (severe conditions for heavy transport) I did not eat, I did not clean (slip the hook in, and leaning forward)
5.
Perfumes and strategies, and systems of bells… Plays based on nothing, magnets thrown down a well… Sibling assembling random tones by the hour… A hero to cabbies...engineered rhythm power. But which won’t switch at the transfer of fingers? This name the same evokes ghosts, a view lingers. As spirits are raised, drained, and summoned in praise, strains of puzzlement will quiz all present and still, this is it: The game of the curious surname that is Eno. There’s Brian and Roger, and Will, and Jim, plus the ghost we know as the father of traffic laws, the eminent William Phelps Eno: Pray name them correctly...or prove you a naive bambino! Semiconductors, mixing, Wurlitzer, too— Unembarrassed to work with that harmonica dude… Title and deed, indeed a season of flu… Used to blow the euphonium...could not drive but still you Will play the game of the curious surname that is Eno. There’s Brian and Roger, and Will, and Jim, plus the ghost we know as the father of traffic laws, the eminent William Phelps Eno: As spirits are drained, crazed, as tumbling strays pray, as Enophile connoisseur voices pile on as your… Bits flame if you name the Wrong Eno! (Did you get it? If not it’s exotic, but it’s not a set-up...) Please reform your poor form before we know (...thought, but a lot of what gets unknotted ought to be thought.) you’re a scam at your amateur plea, no… (Let it upset its setting, better bet it gets a guess then...) You’re a poseur who chose the Wrong Eno! (...vet it, or rot it: yes, it’s set, not stopped at bottom.) Play the game of the curious surname that is Eno. There’s Brian and Roger, and Will, and Jim, plus the ghost we know as the father of traffic laws the eminent William Phelps Eno: Pray name them correctly...or prove you a naive bambino! Random code set in bold Palatino… Going vague in a Vegas casino… Super placid in acid amino… No remorse quick divorce in old Reno… Beta decays: hooray, a neutrino… All aboard Stan’s old Ford Gran Torino… Fast asleep wearing cheap fake merino… Sing some lines whose words rhyme, end in “Eno”…

credits

released December 1, 2022

All songs everything by Jeff Norman except "Little Audio Sparkler..." lyrics by Brian Block and Jeff Norman, "The Proven Faction" randomized lyrics arranged by Brian Block and refiltered and rearranged by Jeff Norman

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Monkey Typing Pool Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Just one guy with minimal gear whose main goal is to produce songs that sound like things he wants to hear...which, for some reason, no one else has bothered recording yet.

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