melancholy chorus

never seems to leave

you show all the signs

that's why i keep on

rupert sheldrakes' favorite

give it all that you can

on a cold norwegian tile

regardless of the cost

there is a last time

the last song luke seamon gave me

"great harmonies, stellar playing and topnotch songwriting combine to make 'of the black & the blue' a total delight..music at its best!" 
-Bathtub Music

"Of the Black & the Blue is spectacular.."
-Portland Phoenix

"Of the Black & the Blue suggests a band with unbridled potential.."
-Americana-UK Review

Everything that starts someday comes to screeching halts. The slight of hand; the screen door slam; a polygraph in the promised land. You left me no choice but this – extended wrist . . . the judas kiss. All things bright and glorious. Join the melancholy chorus. It’s sad. It’s sad.  We’re awfully sad. We thought we had what we did not have.
“T’was a violent death,” they said. “To fall from there – to hit your head. The itching eyes. The crowded square. The smell of death hung in the air.” We never know. The things we do. To plant a lie, or feed the truth. Place more stock in that which is true. This is the song of the black and the blue. Low. It’s low. We’re very low. We just forgot what we did not know.

Trailer park you are gloom. You are dusted 1964 volume of poetry. Perfect time. Capture meter, rhythm, complex verse, and rhyme. Jealousy, Jealousy. Oh to be St. Andrew, Francis, or Martin Sheen. I am beat. You can sing on key, and I’m a drunk James Dean.
 Hold me close. Father Light is stretched beneath my trembling skin. I am sin. Darkness never seems to leave this gentle town. Let me down – when this basket leaves the wall and hits the ground.  And dream all your broken dreams. This dark hallway is lighter than it seems, when you speak of Father Light trembling deep within your skin. Let her in. Don’t withstand the gentle wind. If it’s love you want then speak the word and conversation lends. Bust the door. Break the lock. Some rebelliousness needs more than just a take. Take the gift. The perfect gift is the one that will carry you through death. Hallelu. Hallelu. Now the book declares your life is something new. Hallelu. Now redemption is the cloak that covers you.

Furies over providence.  He’s underneath the picnic table – rocking back to yester year. Quench the thought of change is here. And even me . . . me with my sick eyes can see December come. I can watch the vigor die. The tightening of the drum. But you are not too far to touch that holy star. Blessed is the heavy heart who strains to play the weaker part. The broken lip of gypsy tongue. The laden feet that cease to run.  For if me . . . I wonder if you know . . . wonder if you sing. Could the trumpets blow – could their vespers bring you to your own grave? You to what you have?Destined for the ground he laid his tired head into his hands. Harlotry is on parade. A silver 12 piece marching band. And you . . . you show all the signs of living secret lives. Lurking in the dark. Swimming with the sharks. Watch the fire shudder, like Truth beneath the other. 

Let’s not pretend to be over confident. Let’s not preserve it song. Hint, hint. I’ve got a glitch and they call it memory. That’s how I got in the shape that I’m in. 
I’m gonna end up with something serious. I’ve got degenerative thoughts. Whooweee! I know somebody who should be here with us. Who in the world do you think that could be?  Even if now is the end of the world I know I’m in a curious spot. Indeed. I know somebody who thinks the word of me. Who in the world do you think that could be? Let’s not pretend to be high on ecstasy. Let’s just sing us out a song. Right on? This is a start and it’s called a mystery. That’s why I keep on playing this song.

Death will cure what life will not; stick its thumb in the center of your softest spot. And it will hold you there above the staircase until you scream. Naturally, I kind of thought that all girls liked forget-me-nots, but memories were braided in her hair. They hold you there, against your will, and they shape-shift whenever they reckon to and all along the radio is on fire. It’s funny how your eyes will adjust to fog so thick and sick with lust that you could smudge the boundary between awake and dream.  Wait a minute. Hold the phone. I’ve still got to walk this memory home. I’m in love with Rupert Sheldrake’s favorite girl. “Well I declare,” she said with style. “I’m licensed to kill but I haven’t in a while. There’s this boy like you in the punch line of a joke that I know. It goes something like . . . you’re afraid of heights, but you close your eyes and it will all be alright until somebody pulls the chair out on you and you’re gonna fall. “That’s funny,” I said, “Because it’s not about you.” Then the sky grew dark and the wind it blew. ’That’s really weird,” she said and handed me a cigarette off of the dash. Life will kill what death forgets. In the middle of the forest I’m gonna place my bets . . . and fall asleep beneath the golden calf. 

I don’t know why I’m this way: overkill and understate. My folded hands are losing face. They’re all over you and radio waves. The top of the stairs – where he would stand. And mimic the sounds of 3-piece bands. Tell us to ‘give it all that you can.’ Over the air and into the hand. You look good for the lady. You flaunt it for the girl. You shine them for the blind man standing at the mirror.Already now, I know what he means. There is some kind of light in audible scenes. The things that you say are held in space. And later are seen in some other place. Holding your own is so overplayed. Not speaking the words that stay on your face. Over your head and into their grace. Flashing a smile on radio waves.
You look good for the lady. You flaunt it for the girl. You shine them for the blind man standing at the mirror.

In the corner of a bathroom, on a cold Norwegian tile, she can sulk beneath expression like the cowl on a brow. When the argument is ended and the bathwater is cold. It’s a $50 difference, but it’s worth its weight in stone. When fever loses energy it’s classified as spent. There’s a stamp in the right hand corner, but the letter won’t be sent. When it’s six of one, and six the other, and six to build a nest. The doctor says at 5:08 of cardiac arrest. I hope this won’t become a habit – this speaking to me in code. Just come right out and say it. You’re drunk and the bar is closed. And that’s what this is all about – to sulk beneath expression. Well, hang-up the phone and try again. And I’ll try again to listen. 

I’m a ghost in the shell. I’m a space to fill. I’m a part of earth and god. I’m a cannonball mounted to the wall – still basking in the shot. And it’s possible and it’s safe to say that we’ve come up from lesser things because my eagerness hates the animus that ties us to our race. I’m a ghost in the shell. I’m a party girl. I’m afraid of being lost. And I’m ready now to evolve somehow . . . regardless of the cost. I’m a hymn to sing. A bell to ring. A sentence to be slurred. And hopefully it will translate well and you’ll get every word. On a lighter note. Not to rock the boat, but somebody’s blocked me in. And my car’s been on since the second song and I just heard it quit. So the point I guess that I was aiming at is that I’m a couple things. Like a probably, and a possibly, and a not ever in your dreams. 

Nothing I call to you makes you feel sad for me. This I’ll be keeping until you release me. Nothing I called about seems to invite her. Andrea’s lost all the hope I had in her.
There is a last time I always wanted. Just keep your distance, this won’t go off easily. You’ve got the tie on, let’s see how you treat me. Now it’s just wanting and I’ve always had it. Oh what she told me. Deep regret.  There is a last time I always wanted.
Nothing I call to you makes you feel sad for me.
(by Siiri Soucy)

This is the way that the world will end. And the fever is almost real. And the foot could never outrun the wheel. This is the way that the world will end. Get on the train or find your own way.  We’re the ones to blame; we are unfaithful. You’ve chosen me and then another. Get on the train or find your own way. Alas, our dried voices when we whisper. Alas, our dried voices when we whisper. Where is your love? It is so fleeting.  If you don’t stop then say we’re over. My heart is broke. You’re never sober. Where is your love? It is so fleeting. You must change, though you will never. I’m speaking now, but are you listening? I’m leaving now, but will you miss me? You must change, though you will never.
(w/luke seamon)