Even Clothed

by Marmalakes

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1.
Geneva Hall 03:40
Even clothed animals need nocturnal fixes, When the only wish is to be at odds with light Doused in the ditch is any grand scheme thinking, Rectangle turn-arounds are no accidents Geneva Hall, it was as if it was looking for us The clean floor called, seeking a supply of scuffs Slurred even sober voices bounce off boots and starch Would you like to dance; it’s only our part Blind-man Andy installs shutters by day But windows will have to wait Because he’s busy with his glass Electrician Tristan, I see him sparking up with Suzie I think he’s got her in his coozie I think she’s got him cherry-picked Ink-spill tar avenues have taken me Through the routes, Eggshell letters on algae metal do Lead me to The neon-speckled wooden walls Just east, Of “Highway Narcolepsy” And the handwriting reads: Geneva Hall, it was as if it was looking for us The clean floor called, seeking a supply of scuffs Slurred even sober voices bounce off boots and starch Would you like to dance; it’s only our part Would you like to dance in the dance hall dark
2.
I’d hate to die without any scars So I hope to fall running in the street After dark, pitched to pitch asphalt Yelling “to the wall” excitedly And then from my knees Comes the colour of defeat. The ground has offered pebble fractions of itself Cordially, a warm gift of collision The denim round the wound Has found the former spool of blue Unsuitable, and runs now with another With no other Than the colour of defeat Finite is this night It runs out like I will But I’m leaving something still In seconds built of thrill Smeared into the street Stained into the weave Is the colour of defeat I’d hate to die without any scars So I hope to fall running in the street After dark pitched to pitch asphalt Yelling “TO THE WALL!” excitedly And then at my knees Clearly I see The colour of, the colour of The colour of, the colour of To the wall, to the wall I The colour of, the colour of To the wall, to the wall I To the wall, I do embark Through the night fallen autumn park I march
3.
If nothing else this is meant to mark this domino day Collecting handfuls of balloon skin parts Ungluable, randomly splayed The air that left Really got the best Of the bloated latex lung Body of a string, held by a thumb And a single finger Wrapped in presence, wrapped in prints Insides merging with the winds Gust or gale, she is gone, and so is it El Paso woman wearing turquoise stones On eight-decade-aged bones That cradle, twist, and tie And hand over her sigh The heir goes in with ease But takes more than he sees Body of a string, held by a thumb And a single finger Wrapped in presence, wrapped in prints Insides merging with the winds Bursting breast, equals death, for a friend These moon-shades match the ones From when you could Keep your years on What you have attached
4.
Spectacled his fair white face, thick glasses in black Beatnik frames Straight-haired and honest-eyed, skinny as a saltine side The fellow’s got a swell set of ears He listens like a journal, but he won’t make your carpals cramp As I sit spouting ‘bout how there’s no way to get a handle on Jubilant John (Jubilant John) Jubilant John (Jubilant John) He’s one of just a few I know who will go to Giggle City And even show you around Well now he’s oceans away on a working holiday in Australia Packing boxes, spinning spokes, acquainting with the Aussie folks They call him ‘Aden’ there And though his moniker is his middle name Parted by the sea, he is still the same Jubilant John (Jubilant John) Jubilant John (Jubilant John) Jubilant John (Jubilant John) Jubilant John (Jubilant John) He’s one of just a few I know who will go to Giggle City And even show you around ‘Cause we’ve all been to Giggle City It is a hell of a town
5.
In a suburban neighborhood, grid laid way before the war Out of windows smoke billows, nearly every day it seems The oaks and elms keep the soot down, but they can’t contain the flames And roofs are only mighty crowns, when they run off the rain Red metal rescue, sirens in song Ground laying clouds, heavy and long Grown men ascending, dressed in custom costumes Red metal rescue, red metal rescue The regulars drinking it black, sit and stir conversing “Did you hear the explosion? It happened in the night” “Where exactly? Were you there?”; “No, but I was close” “I could see it tearing up the sky, the air still reeks of a roast” “Was anyone caught up in it?” His response was slow “An elder lady and her husband both; they were in their tenth decade” They’d lived there for sixty years, their parents there before They both limped out with canes in hand, but collapsed there on the porch Red metal rescue, sirens they whine Crying for those they may not get to in time In the seasons ignited, equipped with heavy hearts Red metal rescue, ascending the dark Neighbors emerged instantly, thinking they’d been bombed They all witnessed the tragedy, as the frame fell bright and loud And water rushed down faces, but could not tame the flames Or ever hold the places of the hands that held the canes Red metal rescue, sirens they whine Crying for those they may not get to in time In the seasons of fire, equipped with the heaviest of hearts Red metal rescue, red metal rescue
6.
Auctioneer 03:46
The auctioneer, he spoke it clear After running back in from the rear Of the words, learned, turned into stirring ramble Presenting hatted at a stand A podium hinging his hand But his tongue, young, flung out his whirring timbre The farmer was a schoolboy once The carpool painter, a naval paver The tractor reins, strange, are easier to handle Than the flag arms up, abrupt, quickly with candor His spit chimes out of speakered poles Amplifying silver teeth Feeding back, slack, smacks the Ross Point Picnic Lensed eyes lean over styrofoam For final bites of neighbor pies Chewing on the rattles roam Adhesive teeth, creep, sweetly wide More than all More than all to More than all to me An auctioneer, an auctioneer More than all to me
7.
Balmorhea (free) 04:21
I awoke in Balmorhea To the echo-shouts of shotguns In the distant desert haze Every bird pretends it’s not one Two companions bearing blood Not the same but it may as well be The quiet here may be enough To make up for the shells now empty Blown and covered in dust These stones are not to be trusted But they won’t bear blame if we bust Unraveling At our sore feet Are the Barilla Hills I fell asleep in Balmorhea To a bellow-less breeze A foul death morning has been replaced By the winging in of eve In the stillness that is here There is a different kind of gun The shots of silence almost pierce And every word pretends it’s not one Unraveling At blistered feet Are the Barilla Hills

about

This is our second release. We hope you enjoy it!

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released November 15, 2011

All songs written and performed by Marmalakes.

Recorded by Gary Calhoun James at White Owl Recording
With additional recording by Mike Vasquez at Sweatbox Studios
Produced and Mixed by Gary Calhoun James and Marmalakes
Mastered by Erik Wofford at Cacophony Recorders

THANK YOU FOR LISTENING!

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Marmalakes Austin

Marmalakes is the Austin, TX, group led by Chase Weinacht and Josh Halpern, lifelong friends whose spirited intensity leaps from their recordings and performances.

Weinacht pays tribute to rural life in sparsely populated Texas towns he lived in as a child (those scenes and voices permanently inform his songwriting), while employing a playfulness only found in the city.
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