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A Halter Pardon Him And Hell Gnaw His Bones!

by Ganache

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In Pidgin 02:42
The Cumbrian Spaceman’s a hell of a guy but he’s shy; he’s so shy. Keeps busy and keeps to himself as he keeps up the lie. Don’t you dare take his photograph don’t you dare call his name out loud in a crowd don’t you dare tease and point and laugh don’t you dare. Calamity Jane is a hell of a gal but she’s trouble; real trouble. Keeps yapping and yakking about some guy John Henry but she’s not blowing smoke no she’s not yanking anyone’s chain no she’s not taking the mick telling no tall tales anymore no she’s not. “A halter pardon him (and) hell gnaw his bones!” Her hollow form filled up with rage. And there’s an old dead factory by the side of the road and the gulls live there on the roof in the cold cold air and when they speak they speak in pidgin and they say: “There’s not a molecule in the atmosphere as wild as you or this party we’re going to. There’s not a particle in the Universe that’s hotter than you or this party we’re going to.”
Islay 03:00
Sing a song about your secretary and I know it’s going to be one of these rainy days: “I want to suck the life out of another man!” “Drink another dram of your favorite poison!” I know that stuff pulses in your father’s veins. “I want to blow the Winter out of the city!” And be lighter than raincloud on top of these salty islands. They’re just a photograph and you’ve always acted bad around them. You were born on a roller coaster and married on a ferris wheel, died in the haunted house and buried in the empty field and you were lighter than a raincloud and talking about these islands: “They’re just a photograph and you’ve always acted bad around them. You’re a fraud. You sing that ditty like you wrote it a week ago. You sing that ditty like you’ve never seen Islay in the snow.” Sing a song about your secretary and I know it’s going to be one of these razor blades. “I want to slit the life out of another man!”
I felt some heavy air so sweet, standing tall like the proudest cloud, undead waking in their tombs to find equal gloom in their way. If only they could bring angels’ secret prayers to their lips to make a recipe for better lives and better worlds we’re better off in planes. “I’ve complained about the slightest wrongs.” Angels have a recipe for better lives and better worlds we’re building up better waterfalls; what a great display! What do you suppose they will think of next with airplanes in the sky flying faster than the truth? With one fell swoop this propeller’s winding down.
Warp Zone 04:12
Gemini is a hell of a sign and James Woods is a hell of a pimp and I may be schizophrenic but Connie knows a doctor who can take good care of that limp. Play checkers in your treehouse, play with the Philharmonic. What is it about that height; what is it about the 7th that makes us loose our minds? Withering heartbroken radio’s choking on waves invisible stubborn and wild and someday I’ll be unwired: dead as a doornail high-tailing it from the Universe and flickering pixels are all that I’ll leave behind. If you ever want to see me again just sidestep to the warp zone and meet me in another time. We’ve got to find a warp zone. It’s the only way out of this mess. And once again explode. It’s getting harder to see, full of enemies, and time to get out of this place. And truthfully it seems to me everybody feels the need to sing about the radio. And I’ve got a line on a new kind of wine and I’ve got half a mind to sing. “Sing about the radio!”


released March 17, 2009


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Ganache Southington, Connecticut

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