1. |
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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.
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2. |
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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.
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3. |
The Dead Bob Dylan
02:02
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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
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4. |
The Proven Faction
04:08
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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)
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5. |
The Wrong Eno
04:25
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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”…
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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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