Topter Baster
- Loaded On Sparks
- Lang-A-Lang
- Carburetor
- Numbers Racket
- Sea To Shining Sway
- Machine Doesn't Work
- Oil Slick Dress
- Wreckon
- Re: LP's, And Pantries
- Antiseptic
- I Blow Up
- Anonymous, I Love You
- Bird
Available on CD - $4 ppd
Loaded On Sparks
I’m a car jerk and so full into spaces. The faces of each last enemy blur and quote the best lines from books I call favorite. Nothing living moves or nerves. Nothing living moves or nerves. Nothing living. The moon and each beach is blunt shades of overbite. Birdhouses call for cheap Amer-plaster. In all of my good songs disaster plays huge roles. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Don’t tell me I’m wrong. Don’t tell me nothing. I’ll queen your sore head in polar baked Alaska. It’s April and heat’s begun stiffing my lip. I’m stone as steel plate in your trumpet-white heart. Half thoughts and matchless, I’m loaded on sparks, loaded on sparks.
Lang-a-lang
Locksmith guffaw all over the couch as Tennessee spins out the coy rooster plays with the first tongue of sun, tapes Hee-Haw to the backs of her eyes, marries her for fifty years. What does this mean? I mean, what does this do? Russian songs, calliope gaff, aluminum foil. Under the blanket, the smothering quiet. Locksmith guffawing ‘til next morning jitters. The rooster up dragging the river for nonsense, the river for nonsense. Guttural glides, pick scrapes, wrong notes, it all falls apart on the charitable dime.
Carburetor
Let me show you tire trucks blowing, lepre-hacks sewing elephants in rain suits. Balance beam hardware. Mexicali riot glare. Scat-singin’ ice trucks. You don’t really have to scare. If there’s sand in your combat threads, a virus in the butcher’s cred, my name is Carburetor. Let me be your treetop. Watch me do a flare check. Maybe then I’ll never drop. I can switch to head voice, maybe you can hear the dread crashin’ through the blastin’ zone. ‘Sorry’ is my favorite trash. You can sway like a heart of palm. Even brute-like storms get calm. Twistin’ like a grocery line, gin & lime on a two-step dime. My bad teeth & your sack-head can get us back from the dead sea alive. If there’s sand in your combat threads, my name is Carburetor.
Numbers Racket
Picture: so blonde on a red moon run round a cable with a loose cut head. It turns winter like you said. Sore with numbers, spitting lead, half-off the top, hooray 1910. Haywire & bloom we drive suffuse as September and lampposts pry. We’re malaprop planes, a civilized game, a sweet un-soprano sound. Comes back bitter on the ground. Sick with numbers, spitting lead, half-off the top, hooray, 1910. Sad with numbers spitting lead, half-off the top, forget 1910.
Sea to Shining Sway
Golly, Woodrasp has a .45 howler. It’s hard to take a fall. And now that gravity’s so sour, it’s hard to take a fall. Short order us a cook with the requisite imposter who’ll deflect us, every hook, flowing sea to shining sway, sea to shining sway. Hummingbird cake, that’s the way to get the buzz. Damn the shimmy master mix. Unslave the masquer ball. Damn the shimmy master mix. Prague’s blowin’ wild as a gem in the twenties. The scale is apt to bail. We should all divest our money. Who’ll save us from our sales out of sea to shining sway, sea to shining sway.
Machine Doesn’t Work
Running from snowflake-empty posters of Stockholm Vol. 1. Oranges are pitched but rarely hit their mark. The piano rags roll on over the brim of Mary’s red ripe top hat, peppercorn. Steamboats of Twain-ish humor keep my bar tabs paid & keep them warm. Suckers a dime an army come over to funnel afternoons away from my evening paper, sweeping yards & recording passing loons. Migrating, oh so sorry to leave off at Side 3, Vol.2. Stockholm will be so empty after the applause machine turns blue.
Oil Slick Dress
There's a dress it's spinning flowered with some hair. It reminds me of a ferris wheel and where we get stuck on our idea that the sky was water too. Slushy me, lazy you. We almost turned to sweat. We almost turned to swear, stranded in the air. There's a dress with cotton breakers by the sea. She could flip the minnows off, but she flips me. I get stuck on my idea that she's a sailor, sir. Slushy me, lazy her. We almost turned to salt, our muscles getting sore, drilling off the shore.
Wreckon
Difficult density up under the stars. No entry: this door is a burned down circus. The lion sticks your head in the lion tamer’s mouth, and he does it on purpose. I could use some goodness through this thicket. Reckon I’ll have to follow tow. Trucks through the mud and blood and colored water. Another day collapses on the floor, but who ever heard of an oxygen brother, spangled and filled like a latex balloon? Oh surgeon give me room. Give me room. Cut me open. Let me bloom. Oh surgeon, it’s my doom. Give me room. Cut me wide and let me bloom.
Re: LP’s & Pantries
Blue-green & effervescent, a wreck-sadder, a French inhaler song. Cold coffee & Dolphy records, gasoline and a gold hospital room, flippy groom, and you, too. Tilde lead, like I said, read right through. Stand aside as the king gets sicker, hide your tongue as the taster tries a plum. Pearl button with five blend pepper this is hot from a monkey-wrencher who startled you, and me too, taking notes from his coats of blue. He gave up, his lip stuck and true. Awful plaids on our heads of rue.
Antiseptic
This humidity is a Drag City sock hat. Enjoy the book. There’s nothing wrong. And antiseptic will love you forever even when the booby traps snap shut around your ankles. Where the bleach is I’ll be your blanket. There’s nothing wrong. Shack up by the track near the llama farm. Distill the day. Be still in May. And antiseptic will love you forever if ever Needles blueprints and regrets you all his life. Where the bleach is I’ll be your blanket. There’s nothing wrong. Falling rock or Ferris wheel, state “enter” at the exit with a bench marked seaweed. Coffee County, Tennessee is neon white at noon.
I Blow Up
Chasing dynamite to flower beds. Reading Roethke in the sky. Collapse my bones without a coffee hit. I blow up the gladiolas on my tie. I blow up as chains of flytraps catch her eye. Set the charges out like candy canes. Kiss the motor-star for glam. Pictures might win me a golden tooth, erector sets of cities on the lam. Running from a brighter future than I am. Churn the print blues out before the king. What pleased me most the roulette smiles. Miles and miles of my explosive charm could empty all the chambers on the dial, beggin’ off the messy cleanup for a while.
Anonymous, I Love You
Turmeric is my only season, my clown, my dinosaur. Wilting on the standard whither, I think I’ll change the chord. I’ve got a heavy reason why you oughta stay down with great and smitten glimmer, the Mingus switchblade, parade, the price of meat in Europe. The schwag, morag, morass and all his bastards. You go awry. The price of freeze is easy. Your cold sore laugh, it drags me through some plaster. When I get out you’ll wish and kick. You’re dirt. Anonymous, I love you, but I’m hurt. Give your girl another sour whiskey hairdo. All the famous lampshade flowers are falling on you. If she told you to write that letter, I hope you agree that sour grapes are even sour directed at me.
Bird
This bird flies a saw blade. Cracker Jack sky’s gone grayer than I’ve ever seen it, waiter. The wash of song is sicker. Pass me out another. I mean pass me off for mother. Boss snagged my stream, in the basement, turned blue. Lack of oxygen has got him twisted. It’ll maybe get you bird. Saw blade don’t fly on a word, alone.
Produced by Mass Giorgini
Recorded by Dan Lumley at Sonic Iguana
Pre-production by s.a.marjason at #2
Music by CLIFFORD NEVERNEW
Lyrics by Matt Hart
except "Numbers Racket" by Hart/Appleby
Cover Art by Christian Schmit
Design & Layout by s.a. marjason
Thanks to: Tricia Suit, Melanie Holter, Candace Miller-Janidlo, s.a.marjason, Christian Schmit, Cindy Laufenberg, Paul Nelson, Mass Giorgini, Dan Lumley, Tom Bergman, Terri Ford, Forrest Griffen, Jim Farmer, Deary Me Records, Rick Pruett, Mark Davis, Mike Po, Dan McCabe, Mike Breen, Terry Burke
© 1998 CLIFFORD NEVERNEW
