Scott Wicken

Songer | Singwriter | Spoken Word Artist | Poet

Performances

2018: Venue: Time: Notes:
Friday April 20 Joe Friday's, Goderich 8:30 pm With Paul McInnis and Joe Gillam

Who?

Scott Wicken is a singer/songwriter and multi-instrumentalist based in Waterloo, Ontario. With a background in spoken word/poetry, he has a strong sense of the lyric and following his words can lead you to unexpected places, emotional, intellectual and otherwise.

His songs are a mix of folk, punk, psychedelic rock, roots, reggae, ska, country, blues, beat poetry... translated into solo voice and fingerpicked acoustic guitar. He can switch from earnest to irreverent in a heartbeat. Live, he'll make you laugh, shed a tear, and squirm in your seat... all within the space of a 3 1/2 minute song.

As well, he is a member of City’N’Eastern, an acoustic trio which features accomplices and accomplished songwriters Brent Hagerman and Paul McInnis.

Recordings available for purchase at Bandcamp.

Scott Wicken is also a web developer and all that stuff can be found here.

Recordings


Old Treeplanter


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Written: 2012
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: All Instruments Scott Wicken

I spent 3 cathartic years planting trees in Northern and Southern Ontario and some time in Northern Alberta.





I'm a Treeplanter lyrics

I'm an old treeplanter from a long time ago. I worked way out West and in North Ontario. And I'm going gray. I'm growing old. But I'm still strong down to my wooden bones. I'm a treeplanter from a long time ago.

When I was young I was a wayward son. I'm not proud of everything I ever done. Then that summer I joined a planting crew. Now I walk straight and my heart is true. 'Cos I'm a treeplanter through and through.

We were punkers and students, artists and criminals, lovers and farmers, lesbians and liberals, bizknobs and streetniks, anarchist intellectuals. We were treeplanters down to our wooden bones. We were treeplanters such a long time ago. There's something about working with your hands in the earth that makes you realize what life is worth.

I walk these familiar streets but I don't feel at home. And every Spring I get itchy feet. My mind it starts to roam to the burn site, the slash piles, the mud the dirt and stones and all those fine people that I used to know.

And there's something about working with your hands in the earth that makes you realize what life is worth. And when my eyes grow dim, when they lose their shine, bury me with my shovel in the Norway pines 'cos I'm a treeplanter, oh I'm a treeplanter. I'll be a treeplanter until the end of time.


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Written: 1999
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Shannon Lyon, Scott Wicken
Musicians: Shannon Lyon plays drums and electric guitar and bass. Wicken plays electric guitar, Hammond organ and sings.





Chickenheart lyrics

There's a thorn in my paw. I have lost my courage. I come on like a lion, like a lamb I leave discouraged. Your new man treats you rotten. He's the 5th one in a row. I think you should drop him girl, you say there are things that I don't know.

Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.

Once you filled my heart. You filled it with air. Then it blew apart. Now I never go there. I stand like some scarecrow and watch as you get ravaged. Your old world soul can't get its feet in a modern world so savage.

Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.

There's a no exit sign on the yellow brick road. There's a crock of shit at the end of the rainbow. All the fairy tales end unhappily ever after. The best laid plans always end in disaster. Your enemy feeds and clothes you when your lover treats you wrong. There's something I want to say to you. It's all wrapped up in this song.

Seasons pass, love don't last. Questions unasked remain unanswered. It's so absurd, I got such a big mouth I'm at a loss for words. I'm a chickenheart, such a big chickenheart.


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Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Inspired by John Giorno.





Autopsy lyrics

At my autopsy, the doctor will take my heart from my chest, gasp, and hold it below the big white light to inspect. He will wonder aloud how such a bruised and battered thing could have kept beating for so long. He won't throw it away though, with the rest of my innards, he'll keep it for his collection. At a dinner party of his peers, he'll hold it aloft and intone, "here friends is the shrunken, scarred heart of a sucker. May none of us ever be so afflicted." All the people in the room will nod, clink their glasses, down their drinks, and then return to talking about whatever it is that doctors and their ilk talk about.


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Written: 2001
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Wicken plays acoustic and sings. Paul McInnis plays mandolin. Brent Hagerman plays acoustic guitar.





Backporch lyrics

Sittin' on my backporch playin' my guitar, just sittin' on my backporch playin' my guitar. All the neighbours come around and they listen from their backyards.

All the birds in the trees and the honeybees, all the kids on the street just a slappin' their knees as I sit on the backporch playin' my guitar. Got a hammock over there just in case I get tired.

Sometimes I wish that I was unemployed. Sometimes I wish that I was unemployed. All play, no work, that makes me a happy boy.

I said all play no work would make me a happy boy. All play, no work, would make me a happy boy. Don't mind me, I'm just a-playin' with my toys.

Come around 7 and bring your mandolin. Come around 7 and bring your mandolin. We're gonna have a good time so bring all your friends. We're gonna have a good time so bring all your friends. We're gonna have a good time so bring all your friends


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Written: 1999
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Shannon Lyon, Scott Wicken
Musicians: Wicken plays slide guitar, acoustic guitar, cello, Hammond organ and sings. Shannon Lyon plays electric guitar, bass, shaker and drums.

Written when my wife and I were contemplating having children.





Part Time lyrics

Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?

In those darkened rooms so hungry. We fumble through the moves for something half empty. Are you ready for love? Are you ready, are you ready for love?

Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?

And in the light of day we are waiting. Toys in every room but no children playing. Are you ready for love? Are you ready, are you ready for love?

Part-time always tears me apart. Part-time is for those with half a heart. Have a heart. Are you heavy with love? Are you heavy, are you heavy with love?


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Written: 2005
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Wicken sings and plays bass, accordion, guitars, thunder maker thing, tambourine. Paul McInnis sings and plays mandolin. Brent Hagerman plays electric guitar and sings. Scott Eitel plays percussion.

You become what you have done and there is no returning.





The Outcasts lyrics

Here on the dark side. On the wrong side of the street. Oh my campadres, we can never go back, never never go back. All of the mongrels snarl, and the children cry out. All of the wise old ones hide their eyes as we slink and swagger past.

We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days because we have changed.

All of the plants shrink back like paper from a flame, and in the underbrush the creatures shriek and scatter half insane. Like lightning to a metal rod, trouble seeks our frames. We can't escape what we have done and nothing will ever be the same.

We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days
because we have changed.

They can taste it in the fetid air and it's written upon our faces. They can see it in the way we walk, in the way we mutter, the way we pace that we are the outcasts, denied contact. The only company that we can keep are other outcasts like you and me.

We can never go back. We can never go back. We can never go back to those golden days
because we have changed.


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Written: 2001
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Paul McInnis plays mandolin and sings backups. Brent Hagerman plays acoustic and sings backups. Wicken plays banjo, theremin, jaw harp and sings.

I sing this for my old friend Tom Murray who played and sang his heart out with me for many shows in the late '90's. Tommy died in an industrial accident. I also sing it for Steve Toms who I also got to play with off and on over the years. He died in an accident in his home.





Tonight lyrics

There's a singin' in the pines, tonight, singin' in the pines, 'tis a portent of troubled times.
There's a young man on the road, tonight, young man on the road, he's a young man that'll never grow old. You can run but you cannot hide.

There's a black cloud on the hill, tonight, black cloud on the hill. It casts a shadow upon the wall of my will. You can run but you cannot hide. You don't know when lightning will strike.

Ashes on the wind, tonight, ashes on the wind. I wish I could here your laughter again. There's a turnin' in my heart, tonight, turnin' in my heart, as you turn and walk into that dark. You can run but you cannot hide. You don't know when lightning will strike. You can run but you cannot hide. You don't know when lightning will strike.


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Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken

True story. My son, who is 11, loves this one, or at least he laughs everytime he hears it.





Balls lyrics

the guy on the motorcycle
with the tattoos
plainly has his balls hanging out
of his jean shorts

everybody notices
nobody says anything

balls


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Written: 2011
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Shannon Lyon, Scott Wicken
Musicians: Shannon Lyon played drums, bass, xylophone and my old Acetone combo organ. He also sang backups. Wicken sang and played acoustic.

I used to think that rocks were sentient, that their thoughts moved so slowly it would take eons to form a word. This song is written from the perspective of a Menhir, or a standing stone, propped up by some long forgotten people for a lost but deeply important reason... like some witness to eternity.





Menhir's Lament lyrics

Worked upon by wind and water, shaped by nature's hand. I am worn, chipped and weathered. I sit strange upon this land. Once there were words arranged in verses, prayer, poetry and song. The men they danced around the fire. Women beat upon their drums.

I'm still standing here after all of them have gone. So long... so long...

The sun arrives from that direction then departs in the other. The stars spin 'round oh so slowly. I have known them forever. The people they come by the 2's by the 1000's, some to pray, some to measure me. Some make love. Some they murder. Some just stare at me in wonder.

I'm still standing here after everyone has gone. Why am I standing here? I've been standing here so long. So long... so long...

Wielding swords, firing cannons, dressed in rags, dressed in armour. Opposing armies attack and counter. Ages pass like waves of water over me. Why am I here? How will this unfold? There was a reason (no-one now remembers) for why I'm standing here at all.

Why am I standing here after everyone has gone? I'm still standing here. I've been standing here so long. So long... so long...


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Written: 2009
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Paul McInnis sang backups, 'aha's and played banjo. Brent Hagerman also sang backups and played some acoustic guitar. Wicken played acoustic and maybe a little bass.

A pessimistic and fun little rollick where I get to turn some tired metaphors inside out. For those from far away, the 401 is the stretch of highway that goes from Windsor, Ontario to near the Quebec border, but mostly it is known as being the North America's busiest highway around Toronto. Don't drive it unless you have to. I do like the line about life being a mime show featuring a ventriloquist.





Life Is… lyrics

Life is a highway like the 401. It's a game of chicken on the Autobahn. Put a round in the chamber, put your blindfold on. Forget about the brakes. Just give 'er the gun. Life is a highway like the 401.

Life is a trip and it's all uphill. Careful don't slip now Jack and Jill or you'll need a dozen stitches and a handful of pills just to recover from the doctor's bill. Life is a trip and it's all uphill.

Life is like nothin'. It is what it is. It's a damn site better than the alternative. It's a cold hard scrabble. It's the greatest gift. I'm so glad that I exist. I'm so glad that I exist.

Life is a song. It's a funeral dirge down in the boneyard by the burnt out church. You do the Loosey Goosey and the Lunge and the Lurch, dig yourself a hole, shovel in the dirt. Life is a song. It's a funeral dirge.

Life is a breeze like a hurricane. It'll shiver yer timbers and shudder yer frame, whip you one way, spin you 'round again, take all that is dear and blow it all away. Life is a breeze - it's a hurricane.

Life is like nothing. It is what it is. You sally on forth and plead the fifth. It's a silly metaphor that reads like myth. I'm so glad that I exist. I'm so glad that I exist.

It's a velvet glove on a granite fist. It's a mime show featuring a ventriloquist. It's a huge iceberg concealed by mist and the band plays on as we go down with the ship. It doesn't get any better than this, so come a little closer and give me a kiss.

Life is like nothin'. It is what it is. It's a damn site better than the alternative. It's a cold hard scrabble. It's the greatest gift. I'm so glad that I exist. And I'm so glad that you exist. Hell, I'm so glad we all exist. Life is exactly what it is.


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Written: 2012
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Wicken played acoustic, slide and electric backwards guitars, cello, mandola.

A song in appreciation of the patterns of nature and how we are all part of it. I am not a religious person but I like the biblical/poetic sound of using 'thee'. This song is almost like a prayer to the natural rhythm.





Laid Bare lyrics

The corn retreats from the shade of the maple. The shape of the branches repeats in the roots in the soil. The song of the whippoorwill and the red-wing blackbird is broken by the coughing call of the bluejay on the windowsill. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.

I was small against the grandeur of the stars in late autumn. I held a galaxy of crystals in a handful of sand. I danced in a trance dance to the Aurora Borealis, embraced earthly circumstances, this precious gift I have been granted. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.

I loved you in your sadness, knew the rhythms of your madness. I held you in the darkness, tried to fill your emptiness. As we smash at the forms our mothers and fathers made we assume their shapes and make a child full of magic and grace. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.

The veins in my flesh reflect in the leaf. The stones upon the shore are a mouthful of my teeth. The grasses bend and sway like your hair in the wind. We become the world about us become the world within. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee. The patterns here are laid bare to me. I lay them bare for thee.


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Written: 1994
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Scott Wicken





Recall lyrics

The company sent me a notice of a factory recall on my brain. It seems my model had difficulty navigating rough terrain. It had a tendency to go insane, thought too much and overheated, blew gaskets, spit out sprockets and was generally fucked.

They said, "bring yourself down to the shop and our trained professionals will fix you up. It'll only take about an hour, a matter of soldering a couple wires." So I packed me a lunch and a magazine, took me a bus to the factory. They put me under with really good drugs. When I awoke, I was completely un-fucked.

Now I'm light as a feather. I only talk about the weather. And nothing really matters to me, to me. Nothing really matters to me.

Now I don't worry about society, morality or the stuff in the air we breathe. I cancelled my subscription to the Utne Reader. If it weren't for the bible, I wouldn't read at all. I work all week to earn a paycheque, blow it in a day at the shopping mall, spend my free time in front of the tube 'cos i can't think of anything else to do.

So if you find yourself depressed due to your heightened consciousness, troubled by the degree of control exercised by your government, and you're frustrated in your pursuit of truth, question belief and require proof, then you're obviously broken and should be fixed before you do something dangerous.

You'll feel light as a feather. You'll only talk about the weather. You'll be happy being stupid like me, like me. You'll be happy being stupid like me." rows="6" cols="150">Now I'm light as a feather. I only talk about the weather. And nothing really matters to me, to me. Nothing really matters to me.

Now I don't worry about society, morality or the stuff in the air we breathe. I cancelled my subscription to the Utne Reader. If it weren't for the bible, I wouldn't read at all. I work all week to earn a paycheque, blow it in a day at the shopping mall, spend my free time in front of the tube 'cos i can't think of anything else to do.

So if you find yourself depressed due to your heightened consciousness, troubled by the degree of control exercised by your government, and you're frustrated in your pursuit of truth, question belief and require proof, then you're obviously broken and should be fixed before you do something dangerous.

You'll feel light as a feather. You'll only talk about the weather. You'll be happy being stupid like me, like me. You'll be happy being stupid like me." rows="6" cols="150">The company sent me a notice of a factory recall on my brain. It seems my model had difficulty navigating rough terrain. It had a tendency to go insane, thought too much and overheated, blew gaskets, spit out sprockets and was generally fucked.

They said, "bring yourself down to the shop and our trained professionals will fix you up. It'll only take about an hour, a matter of soldering a couple wires." So I packed me a lunch and a magazine, took me a bus to the factory. They put me under with really good drugs. When I awoke, I was completely un-fucked.

Now I'm light as a feather. I only talk about the weather. And nothing really matters to me, to me. Nothing really matters to me.

Now I don't worry about society, morality or the stuff in the air we breathe. I cancelled my subscription to the Utne Reader. If it weren't for the bible, I wouldn't read at all. I work all week to earn a paycheque, blow it in a day at the shopping mall, spend my free time in front of the tube 'cos i can't think of anything else to do.

So if you find yourself depressed due to your heightened consciousness, troubled by the degree of control exercised by your government, and you're frustrated in your pursuit of truth, question belief and require proof, then you're obviously broken and should be fixed before you do something dangerous.

You'll feel light as a feather. You'll only talk about the weather. You'll be happy being stupid like me, like me. You'll be happy being stupid like me.


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Written: 2009
Recorded: 2014
Produced By: Shannon Lyon, Scott Wicken
Musicians: Wicken played acoustic guitar, cello, banjo. Shannon Lyon played his Gretsch, his tambourine and sang some backups.

It used to cost $99 to travel by bus from Toronto to Vancouver, a trip I made a few times. It was about 3 1/2 days straight. This was before the cell phone. I liked how nobody could reach me for that time that I was travelling. It set me free. In Vancouver, I used to hang around at Joe's Cafe on Commercial Drive and drink espresso, write poems and draw pictures. My friend Tim and I lived in a basement a block or two off The Drive and made bad decisions. I am sure that I would have sunk into a very bad state indeed if I didn't happen to run into this woman at an open stage held at The Classical Joint. I moved in with her a day later and changed my life habits. Later, I tagged along with her to Yellowknife, but that's another story.





$100 From Home lyrics

There I was at my destination, downtown Van bus station, $100 from home. I was never so happy to be alone. I could give you all my reasons for leaving: heart full of weeds, barely breathing, head so cluttered and overgrown, a beaten up copy of On the Road.

Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.

It was me and Tim and a female hero, lost and profound underground zeroes, bleak and battered, beaten down. It was Nirvana's Bleach and the Seattle sound. At the Classical Joint I met this girl. She was suicidal, at odds with the world, so I took her hand and walked her home. We made love to the Rolling Stones.

Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.

I grew tired of living hand to mouth and sleeping in my clothes on a stranger's couch. I'd laughed and loved and logged all my miles. I was a bag of bones with a crooked smile. I cashed my cheque for a hundred bucks, bought a one way ticket on the Greyhound bus, I watched this country roll on past like a silent movie in the tinted glass. Past the hunchback mountains of Roger's Pass, then the foothills, and 2 days of flat, then the rocks and trees and lakes of the Canadian Shield, then home sweet home sweet farmer's fields.

Well I lived for awhile on the welfare line, ate KD and drank cheap wine, had plenty of time to mess up my mind, so I drew pictures and wrote my lines $100 from home.


Helisaur - by Dinocopter


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Helicopter Dinosaur lyrics

Come on friends, time to dine.
Barbeque, bottle of wine.
Sing a song to pass the time.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Helicopter dinosaur.
Mosquito chompin' carnivore.
Blue blue insect, bug of war.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Burning disk, Yellow eye.
Sky as blue as my mind.
Tommy sings Summertime.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Chorus:
Somewhere in the land beyond
Tommy still sings that song.
And all the angels sing along
to Summertime,
Summertime.

A dragonfly flies on by.
A dragonfly flies on by.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Hope this moment never ends.
Here's to all my long gone friends.
Raise your glass, drink it dry.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Chorus X2

A dragonfly flies on by.
A dragonfly flies on by.
A dragonfly flies on by.
Dragonfly.

Summertime,
and the living is easy.


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Headful lyrics

My momma told me not to talk with my head full.
I was told to wheel my barrow
down the straight and the narrow.
Intrigued by the scene in the other direction.
I got totally lost in the funhouse direction.
I did some things I'd rather not mention.

I lost all respect for time and space
'cos everytime I punched the clock I lost my place.
The aces up my sleeve slid down my pantleg.
The joker in the mirror is laughing in my face.
I mimic every motion that he makes.

I'm ashamed to say I can't remember
the rules to this game.
Can you tell me again the character
I was supposed to play.
Make it snappy, I haven't got all day to wait
trying to make you happy.

They built a pulp mill on my stream of consciousness.
Now my dreams float along like bloated fish.
I was struck blind by a hideous vision
so my train of thought had a collision.
Now I wiggle my toes in indecision.

I'm ashamed to say I can't remember
the rules to this game.
Can you tell me again
the character I was supposed to play.
Make it snappy, I haven't got all day to wait
trying to make you happy.

I'm a square peg jammed into a round hole.
I'm a drunken rat at this tea party for moles.
I borrowed this halo just to fit the dress code.
Anybody with half an eye would see I'm damn uncomfortable.
and I
I should
Should not talk
with my headful
and I
I should
Should not talk
with my headful
headful
headful
headful


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Big City Girl lyrics

when you moved out to Vancouver
you said this town was filled with losers
you were sick and tired of the same tired faces
runnin' around the same rundown places
well you're a big girl now
you're a big girl now
big city girl
big city girl

you came home for christmas
told us all how much you missed us
showin' off your new tattoo
baby, i knew what was wrong with you
well you're a big girl now
you're a big girl now
big city girl
big city girl

and you try
to tell me those lies
but I can see it in your eyes
your small town eyes

got your postcard from detox
guess it happens to the best of us
yeah you've always got a place to crash
you don't even have to ask
well you're a big girl now
you're a big girl now
big city girl
big city girl

and you try
to tell me those lies
but I can see it in your eyes
your small town eyes


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Shaggy Head lyrics

Hey now Shaggy Head
Hey now Shaggy Head

Hey now Shaggy Head, pass that bottle 'round.
Take another hit as it comes around.
It's been a while now living hand to mouth

Hey now Shaggy Head. Turn off that TV set.
Open the window and toss it on out.
It's been awhile now, listening to that sound.

And as the morning light walks through the window
let's be silent for awhile.
Let's be silent for awhile.

I remember vividly the moment that we met.
A memory is like a dream and then again...
What's it mean - well that depends -
I'm gonna miss you when I go,
I'm gonna miss you when I go,
I'm gonna miss you when I go,
when I go, when I go, when I go
back to Ontario.

It's the duty of gravity to pull heavanly bodies together.
It's a task it performs without fail, ever.
We can exercise our will and act in any way we wish whatsoever
but we can't control how we'll feel when the action is over.

They say there's two miles of ditch for every mile of road
and you can't watch your feet when you walk or you'll stumble and fall.
You can buy a ticket to any destination
and you'll find yourself staring back at yourself
from the bathroom mirror of the bus station,

Anyway I'm leaving. I came for a week and stayed five years
and everybody's been asking me 'round here for some kind of explanation.
I try to think of reasons and I offer excuses,
guess every cell in my body is yearning for movement.

And as the morning light walks through the window
let's be silent for awhile.
Let's be silent for awhile,
for awhile.
Let's be silent for awhile.


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Parade lyrics

There's a detour on the road to ruin
There's a detour on the road to ruin
I'm almost out of juice. I need to refuel
with something pure.
There's a detour on the road to ruin

There's a traffic jam on memory lane
There's a traffic jam on memory lane
and the traffic light is about to change
from red to green to orange
There's a traffic jam on memory lane

I feel like a boy with my face against the glass
watching a parade of my life go past.
you do a little dance, you take off your mask
lookin' for a love that will last?

got a box of broken hearts under my bed
got a box of broken hearts under my bed
I'm 2 or 3 short of collecting the set
then again we just met
got a box of broken hearts under my bed


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Live at The Jane Bond in Waterloo, Ontario.





Bumtown lyrics

I shrugged that mouthy devil off, so tired of his hot cough at my ear. And that prissy angel didn't make a sound as she fluttered to the ground. I took off my packsack of shitty history, shoved it in a luggage locker, ate the key. Well I got one barefoot in the grave, but you know I'm just testing the water. And death's too fucking cold for me.

I pawned off all my broken hearts, bought some spare parts 'case my soul falls apart, traded in the chains for some patched up wings. This downtown strip's just a runway for me. I'm the only bum in this bumtown that's free.

Last call at the Last Supper, I was drinking ale out of the holy grail. That brother with the halo hadn't shut up yet so I said, "hey now waitress, bring my cheque." I stuffed my pockets with holy bread, shouldered my cross, headed for the door, passed out drunk in a ditch, slept for 3 days, woke up, looked around, slept for 3 days more. If I had a dollar for every drink I drunk, I'd buy this whole room a round. Hell, if I had a dollar for every drink I ever drunk, I'd buy the whole fucking world a round.

Brother spare me dollar, spare me a dime. I'll spin you a tale as long as this ball of yarn of time. I'll sing a barnyard song as off-key as this out-of-tune heart. But don't you start thinking about it or you'll end up just like me.


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Live at The Jane Bond in Waterloo, Ontario.





Gone To Seed lyrics

once I was a rainbow exploding with colour
I was a fine profusion of beautiful hues and movement
I tried to pay my dues, tried to make both shoes fit
now I'm so deep in debt and tripping over those old dance steps

chorus:
hold me up I'm weak in the knees
my garden of earthly delights is choked with weeds
and everything just became exactly what it seems
oh please help me
i've gone to seed

When I was young I was invincible like a superhero
infatuated with the visuals like a super zero
playing with my mind like some toy to be fucked with
now everything looks broken, scarred and dilapidated
All the pages in my burnt out dream diary
are victims of the viscous winds that rip them from their bindings
they whip around the buildings like swallows in the evening
catch in the grass by the railway tracks, yellow and disintegrate

chorus:

I never really lost my innosence
i threw it away with the rest of the evidence
i never really found what i was looking for
i don't even know what i was looking for
like some dandelion that just lost his head
i wish i could go back and do it all over again
I'm just a goin' downtown clown shoulda stayed at home in bed
shoulda created something beautiful instead of making such a mess


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Written: 1997
Recorded: 2003
Produced By: Eric Duerrstein and Scott Wicken
Musicians: Scott Wicken on spoons.

Live at The Jane Bond in Waterloo, Ontario.





Babblin' On In Babylon lyrics

Got a penthouse apartment in the Tower of Babel
where I raise as much Cain as I am Abel.
The folks around here think I'm mentally unstable
'cos I'm not afraid of laying it all on the table.

So take me out, let's have some fun.
Tie me up when I come undone.
Hold my hand. Make me feel like someone.
Make me feel like someone.
Two crazy minds are better than one.
Better than one, son of a gun,
I'm babblin' on in Babylon.

Dee Die Diddly-I Dee Die Doh

I choked down a bushel of forbidden fruit,
threw it back up into the fountain of youth.
I rolled this rock up this mountain of truth.
I lost my way I got nothing left to lose.

So take me out, let's have some fun.
Tie me up when I come undone.
Hold my hand. Make me feel like someone.
Make me feel like someone.
Two crazy minds are better than one.
Better than one, son of a gun,
I'm babblin' on in Babylon.

Dee Die Diddly-I Dee Die Doh


Something Wicken This Way Comes


  •  


Recorded: 1994
Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker
Musicians: Shannon Johnson, Chris Smith, Bill Bourne, Jason Kodie, Corb Lund, Cory Danyluk, Christine Hanson, Bryan Becker, Tracy Noga, Ryan Videdal, and Scott Wicken





That's an Order lyrics

Hi.
Yeah,
I'd like 2 all sawdust and soybean patties,
not-so-special sauce,
irradiated lettuce,
processed cheese,
pickles,
onions,
on a bleached,
white,
Wonder bread
bun,
please.

To drink?

Yeah,
I'll have a large,
carbonated
water,
with sugar (glucose, fructose),
unnatural flavours,
caramel colour,
caffeine.
Go heavy on the phosphoric acid.
No ice.

Yeah,
and an order of fries.

Well, you too,
have a beautiful
day.


  •  


Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker





Bumtown lyrics

I shrugged that mouthy devil off, so tired of his hot cough at my ear. And that prissy angel didn't make a sound as she fluttered to the ground. I took off my packsack of shitty history, shoved it in a luggage locker, ate the key. Well I got one barefoot in the grave, but you know I'm just testing the water. And death's too fucking cold for me.

I pawned off all my broken hearts, bought some spare parts 'case my soul falls apart, traded in the chains for some patched up wings. This downtown strip's just a runway for me. I'm the only bum in this bumtown that's free.

Last call at the Last Supper, I was drinking ale out of the holy grail. That brother with the halo hadn't shut up yet so I said, "hey now waitress, bring my cheque." I stuffed my pockets with holy bread, shouldered my cross, headed for the door, passed out drunk in a ditch, slept for 3 days, woke up, looked around, slept for 3 days more. If I had a dollar for every drink I drunk, I'd buy this whole room a round. Hell, if I had a dollar for every drink I ever drunk, I'd buy the whole fucking world a round.

Brother spare me dollar, spare me a dime. I'll spin you a tale as long as this ball of yarn of time. I'll sing a barnyard song as off-key as this out-of-tune heart. But don't you start thinking about it or you'll end up just like me." rows="6" cols="150">Brother spare me dollar, spare me a dime. I'll spin you a tale as long as this ball of yarn of time. I'll sing a barnyard song as off-key as this out-of-tune heart. But don't you start thinking about it or you'll end up just like me." rows="6" cols="150">I shrugged that mouthy devil off, so tired of his hot cough at my ear. And that prissy angel didn't make a sound as she fluttered to the ground. I took off my packsack of shitty history, shoved it in a luggage locker, ate the key. Well I got one barefoot in the grave, but you know I'm just testing the water. And death's too fucking cold for me.

I pawned off all my broken hearts, bought some spare parts 'case my soul falls apart, traded in the chains for some patched up wings. This downtown strip's just a runway for me. I'm the only bum in this bumtown that's free.

Last call at the Last Supper, I was drinking ale out of the holy grail. That brother with the halo hadn't shut up yet so I said, "hey now waitress, bring my cheque." I stuffed my pockets with holy bread, shouldered my cross, headed for the door, passed out drunk in a ditch, slept for 3 days, woke up, looked around, slept for 3 days more. If I had a dollar for every drink I drunk, I'd buy this whole room a round. Hell, if I had a dollar for every drink I ever drunk, I'd buy the whole fucking world a round.

Brother spare me dollar, spare me a dime. I'll spin you a tale as long as this ball of yarn of time. I'll sing a barnyard song as off-key as this out-of-tune heart. But don't you start thinking about it or you'll end up just like me.


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Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker





Crazy Dave lyrics

Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
I haven't seen hide nor shaggy head
of that boy in 4 years.
You'd know him if you met him, man.

He had long red Raggedy-Andy hair
he'd wear in two pigtails,
had a Harley Davidson handlebar moustache,
wore workboots,
baggedy-assed dirty jeans,
2 blue tattoos
and a sunburn.
Played harmonica like the cat lost his balls.

Yup,
Crazy Dave...
had a toothy smile as big as my hand,
always chewed on a toothpick
or a long blade of grass,
drank from the bottle,
rolled the worst cigarettes,
was impervious to insect bites,
was one of the best damn
tree planting highballers
east of Prince George.

Never went anywhere without his damn dog,
german shepherd,
name of Karma,
completely loyal,
sang in key to any Bob Dylan tune
which is something
even Dylan couldn't do.

Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?

Now the cat couldn't spell to win a bet
but he carried a battered notebook
full of his poetry -
more soul per square word
than the Lord's Prayer.

He was the kind of guy that called a spade
a shovel, a violin
a fiddle, and a lady
ma'am.

I don't even know why I think of him now,
maybe because he never told me a lie
he'd have to apologize for later,
because he'd speak to a guy straight,
eyeball to bloodshot eyeball,
like he never even had a secret,
or maybe because the last time I saw him
he and his dog Karma
were howling the sweetest blues
out on a rock
on Bad Vermillion Lake
in Northern Ontario
at 4 am.

I remember,
the full moon was hard-pressed
to blink back her silver tears.
And even the Aurora Borealis
kicked off her dancing shoes,
sat back, cracked a beer,
and sighed
"ooohhh, craaazy."

And that's a fact,
man.


  •  


Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker





Tao of Joe lyrics

Joe and I sit outside the used bookstore watching what Saturday does to the Southside. I'm trying to smoke his cigarettes faster than he can smoke mine.
"Hey," he says.
"What?" I say.
"Do you see that apartment building over there?" he says.
"Which one?" I say.
"That one," he says, "the brown one with the puke coloured balconies."
"Yeah. What about it?"
"How many people do you think live there?"
"Jesus Joe, I don't know, hundreds maybe thousands. I don't want to do the arithmetic. Why?"
"Well, it occurs to me," he says (stroking his silly goatee in that thoughtful way that he has), "that that ain't nothing but a filing cabinet for people."
I think about that.

"Jesus Joe, next latte is on me."


  •  


Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker





Clouds lyrics

Been a while I been hiding out,
sitting in my room under a big black cloud,
wasting away days just staring at walls,
waiting for the pain to work itself out.
Oh babe look at me now. Oh babe look at me now.
I'm whistling a tune and I'm walking on clouds,
just kicking up my heels and laughing out loud.

I don't like being the neighbourhood crank,
my angst leaking out all over the place,
my face a blank like a broken brick wall,
infecting everybody with my loss of faith.
Oh babe look at me now. Oh babe look at me now.
I'm whistling a tune and I'm walking on clouds,
just kicking up my heels and laughing out loud.

What doesn't break me makes me strong.
I kind of like being alone.
Oh the days fly by like they were an hour long
but the nights drag on.
The nights drag on.

There's this woman been hanging around,
I kinda like the way she stands on her ground.
She lets her hair down and laughs like a clown.
She spins when she dances around and around and
around and around,
around and around and around and around.

And I'm doing cartwheels under the stars.
I'm writing stupid poems about how beautiful they are,
doing somersaults and handstands, I'm kicking out the jams.
I'm beating out crazy rhythms on my pots and pans.

I'm jumping like a goof on a hot tin cat.
I'm throwing my heart under your welcome mat.
I'm racing through the hills. I'm running through the flats.
I've been up so far downtown who knows where I'm at?

Oh babe look at me now. Oh babe look at me now.
I'm whistling a tune and I'm walking on clouds,
just kicking up my heels and laughing out loud.


  •  


Produced By: Dave Mockford , Scott Wicken. Executive Producer: Bryan Becker





Light Fixture lyrics

In my kitchen is one of those old-timey light fixtures you used to find in old country homes, looks like a glowing upside-down mushroom.
One day, my roommate Luann said, "those flies in the light fixture drive me nuts. It's gross."
I looked up. I'd never noticed the 20 or so dead flies collected in the centre of it. In fact, up until that point, I'd never noticed the light fixture.
"Those are just dead flies in there," I said.
"It's gross," she said. "One day, I'm gonna take it down and clean it."
"Whatever," I said.
That was a couple of months ago. Now, I can't seem to walk into the kitchen without my eyes straying to the collection of dead flies up there - just a sort of gray shadow of death hanging over the kitchen table. Eating at that table is kind of like having a picnic under a hanged man.
I find myself sitting there in the morning wolfing down a bowl of granola contemplating the deaths of those flies. How did they get in there in the first place? And once inside, how did they die - slowly roasting, suffocating? Did they land on the hot bulb on purpose to get it over with or did they give up the ghost due to natural causes - old age, cancer, AIDS, car accidents, etc...?
I wonder - how would it feel to have such a short life flash before so many eyes?
Someday, somebody in this house is going to drag their sorry ass onto this kitchen table, unscrew the screws from the ceiling, take down that light fixture and clean it.
Tell you one thing folks, it won't be me.


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Charlie Brown lyrics

This guy in high school had a head like Charlie Brown: greasy hair that showed which side he slept on, acres of freckles, pimples, bulletproof glasses that magnified already bulging eyes. There was something bovine about his expression, like a cow after the shock, before the descending blade. We all instinctively sensed that he was easy meat so we sharpened our words and ridiculed him until he bled and even his few friends joined in the slaughter for their own fragile safety.
Once, he phoned up this woman, told her that he was a cop, that he had something urgent to tell her and to meet him in the park. The cops found him waiting in a grove of trees with an ice-pick. It made the local papers.
When he was released, stupid Charlie followed another woman home, attacked her in the hallway, but she was stronger than he, pushed him down the stairs, got inside her apartment, locked the door, phoned the cops.
Charlie.
I sat near him in the school orchestra.
He played viola.


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Dancing Girl lyrics

Just a dot on a map,
a spot where your finger stops
when you close your eyes
and spin your own private world.
Such a big patch of grass.
A flag unfurls
and the marching bands still marches on.
You spin your legs and twirl your baton.
Good girl, dancing girl.
Good girl, dancing girl.

Just a point in time,
a moment where a line
intersects a line
somewhere in your mind.
Dad puts on his jacket,
tells you to hurry up 'cause the show starts at 9.
You got the lead in the Nutcracker Suite.
Good girl, dancing girl.
Good girl, dancing girl.

chorus:
Your dreams curled up and
went to sleep inside of you,
a slumber so deep
only the kiss of a prince could revive you.
If only he could recognize you dancing girl.
Oh, dancing girl.
Oh, dancing girl.

Open up your eyes.
Pull yourself from those other places,
those other times.
Up come the lights.
You look upon those stony faces,
those hungry eyes.
You step your steps,
take off your dress.
Good girl, dancing girl.
Good girl, dancing girl.


  •  





Big Beat Speak lyrics

I remember whirling lights,
sparks whipping up and spinning out
like frightened fireflies,
tornadoes of intense colour:
orange,
yellow,
red,
white,
flames highlighting sweat,
flashing across your flesh:
breasts,
hips,
arms,
legs -
you dancing life,
you dancing death
the night the Big Beat
chose to speak.

I remember Beelzebub played rubadub
on a big old oil drum
stretched with human skin,
rattled chains strung with teeth.

And the jester,
smelling profit,
set up shop
in the shadows
by the trees,
sold cut-rate crowns of thorns,
musky resins
and scrap metal jewelry.

He showed you how to paint your face
and you paid him with lies
and he died laughing.
We buried him in a shoe box
and nobody remembers
the whereabouts of the grave.

Gypsies told fortunes around the fire
with bubblegum cards,
smoked Lebanese hash,
ate deep-fried American beans
from the can,
and Shakespeare played with snakes
as the tattooed man upped the stakes
the night the Big Beat
chose to speak.

Somebody yelled, "last one in is a rotten egg,"
so everyone ran for the lake.
White asses, like balloons,
bobbed across the beach.
Splashes and shrieks echoed from the cliffs
and I cooked up an omelette.

I watched a thousand bats
writing your name in the night sky.

And Jesus would've walked across the water
but he turned it into wine instead
and couldn't walk a straight line.
He had his time with the waitress
from the Wildcat Cafe anyway.
I know because I heard her
shriek out his name,
"Jesus Christ, ooohhh, Jesus Christ..."

I picked up a 3-string guitar
and sang songs to you from the dock,
watched your ex-lovers drowning,
swept out to sea
until they became little dots...
then nothing.

I remember wondering why tonight,
of all nights, in an endless succession
of nights, why would the Big Beat
choose to speak?

Well,
who can foretell
the convergence of points?
Who can plot with pencil and compass
the turning of all these things?
Who can remember their true names?
And who can profess to understand
the words of the Big Beat
when it chooses to speak?

Hallelujah!
The universe turns inside out
like a dirty old sock
and my innards tighten
against the shock.

Hallelujah!
Comets split the sky.
The cow jumps over the moon.
The clouds roll over us
and the thunder thunders
like Jaco Pastorius.

And not once, but thrice,
the solstice moon is eclipsed,
turning our souls to ice.
Oh!
May the fallen stars rise again.
May the sky bleed.
May the sun bloom.

Hallelujah!
All the old wounds open again
and I weep for the old pain anew,
anew.
The Big Beat speaks.
The Big Beat speaks.
The Big Beat speaks
again.

It's at times like these, quiet times,
that I roll the past around in my mouth
for a taste of what once was
and I ask unanswerable questions.

How much love has to be lost before
we become completely exhausted?
How many unspeakable things must be spoken
before we are blessed with silence?
And I ask you sister,
where does the time go,
in which direction
and how fast was it moving
when you saw it last?

And I ask,
where is there a sacred place
to bury all my dead?
And I ask,
did you hear the Big Beat speak?
Did you hear the Big Beat speak?
Did you hear the Big Beat speak?
And when
lover,
sister,
friend,
when will it speak
again?


  •  





Vampire lyrics

He wants to be a vampire,
a lifestyle he thinks would match
all the black dye in his hair,
the black widow spider tattoo
on the side of his scalp,
his scary jewelry,
prominent cheekbones and
wardrobe of shadows.

He wants to be a vampire!
Why not?
He stays up all night,
sleeps all day,
hates the beach,
wants to live forever.

And wouldn't it be cool, he thinks,
to chill his victims
with his calculating stare,
suck their blood
straight from their jugulars and
chuck their carcasses aside like
so much trash.

Oh! He wants to be a vampire.

He's done his homework:
read every novel by Anne Rice twice,
owns a copy of the Satanic Bible,
has seen Silence of the Lambs 7 times,
has a complete collection of Bauhaus dance mixes
and his own crimping iron.
Boo! He's scary.

Weekends, he gets all dolled up
goes to the alternative clubs, poses,
shows off his clothes.
He knows all the gothic dance moves.
He throws his body against the wire mesh
on the dancefloor like he means it.

He's one of those straight guys that says he's bisexual,
does acid and ecstasy because it makes him feel sensual,
fosters a fake english accent to sound intellectual.

And he's incredibly nervous,
chews his nails to the quick 'til they bleed,
breaks down with asthma attacks,
and his legs and arms are sticks,
his complexion as pale as
the underbelly of a fish.
And he wants to be a vampire.

Or else,
perhaps,
a hairdresser.


  •  





All Aboard lyrics

The new kids on the block hang out on the corner,
play hackeysack as the waitress from the café
takes an order from the fattest man in the world.
The bladers and the skaters weave through the traffic.
The grungy little hippies all toke outside the gazebo.
I can never go back to the way it used to be.
I'm stuck in high gear, going forward, getting older,
steaming onward, all aboard.

They say that time's a point in a line
where history meets the horizon.
If so I'm a joy filled boy. I swing over the deep water.
Suddenly I'm back at summer camp the year that Elvis died.
We choked on cigars behind the mess hall.
We experimented with alcohol.
I can never go back to the way it used to be.
I'm stuck in high gear, going forward, getting older,
steaming onward, all aboard.

I wish I could show you all the scenes that I have seen.
All the pictures I could draw my friend,
all the songs that I could sing.
These are the things I have done,
the trails I have run, the prizes won.
If I knew now what I knew then
I'd just do it all over again.
I'm not broken yet.
I refuse to forget the joy.
I'm still a boy inside.

When I'm an old man
I'm gonna sit on my rocker on the porch,
smoke home-grown, drink dandelion wine
with a fender strat sitting on my lap.
And when those whippersnappers whip by
I'm gonna turn up the volume on my amp.
In my slippers and my housecoat,
I'm gonna match them note for note.
And we never really die, we just lose our lustre.
We are beams of light going forward, getting older,
steaming onward, all aboard.


  •  





Trans-Dimensional Spider lyrics

Slow day at work.
No customers.
I stand at the cash register, on duty,
smoking, drinking espresso,
trying to get a good caffeine buzz going,
when I notice this small spider,
about the size of the fingernail
on my pinkie, crawl out
from under a book of matches.

It's kind of cute,
I think,
furry,
the hue of milk chocolate,
friendly too.

It raises one leg at me
as if to say,
"hello, have a nice day,"
or perhaps,
"good-bye, been good to know ya,"
for in a blink,
it's gone,
as if it exited via a door
hinged on thin air.

I stand back,
scratch my head and think -
damn, if I knew in advance
that flashbacks
were going to be so goddamn friendly,
I would have dropped
far more acid
when I was a kid.


  •  





Some Guy Downtown lyrics

Some guy downtown walks past,
jingling, jangling,
scuffing worn-down
cowboy boot heels
against cement
with each step.

With bells 'round his neck
and a ring through his nose,
a cacophony of noise
wherever he goes,

shakin' his skinny white butt
in his baggedy-assed,
hole-in-the-knee jeans,
bobbing his floppy muppet head
and flapping his arms and hands
against his thighs and sides
to some goofy internal rhythm
only he can hear.

Oh! His so-neatly-trimmed van dyke!
Oh! His so-black, so-hepcat sunglasses!

Looking like the lead tenor sax player
in the Sally-Ann band, man,
moving a losing out-of-tune jive
like some old hippie whole-lotta-love
Volkswagen van
backfiring
and farting up the sidewalk,
a big old glad-to-be-a-madman grin
a jackhammer couldn't crack
smeared across his face.

And I can hear him
just a-chuckling to himself,
clucking his tongue
against the back of his teeth
like he just ate some big old shit sandwich
and doesn't want you to know
he loved it.

Oh, jolly, jolly, jolly, man...
like the world isn't at war,
like the human race
isn't committing suicide,
like the air isn't poisoned,
like the water isn't poisoned,
like love, itself, is not poisoned...
oblivious.

I watch the damn fool walk into 2 lanes
of high density traffic
against the flashing
don't walk,
don't walk,
don't walk sign...

a hero,
a god-be-damned
hero.


  •  





15 Spring Street lyrics

I painted this fence with my own hands,
danced in the garage to CHYM radio
with a girl whose name was Sharron.
Her aunt lived across the road.
I babysat for her when I was 13 years old
over half a lifetime ago.
I mowed the grass 'round the gardens
in my jean shorts and my runners,
fought with my brother in the living room.
I hit him with the blunt end of an ax.
He got mad and I got grounded.
So I masturbated for a month in my attic room.
The memories in this house leave a taste in my mouth.

I shovelled snow for the Hendersons on the corner.
They gave me cookies and Cokes.
Old skin-flint Tucker next door gave me a dollar.
My buddy Champ would whistle the secret code.
I'd jump out of my bedroom window.
We'd throw firecrackers off the rooftops.
All the memories in this house leave a taste in my mouth.

The guy down the block played saxophone
as old man Schweitzer tended his prize-winning roses
and chased us with a broom
when we cut through his yard.
The guy that owned the Minute Mart
wouldn't let me near his daughter
so we met secretly at the arcade in the pool hall.
All the memories in this house leave a taste in my mouth.

I guess when you leave a place to long
it changes while you're gone.
Suddenly you're a stranger standing on the sidewalk.
Oh I've been standing in this spot for an hour.
Nobody's stopped to say hello.
Only this old house seems to know that I've come home.

That's not a tear on my cheek.
It's just sometimes my eyes leak
when I say goodbye to somebody I used to know.
And it's not that I'm weak
as I turn to leave 15 Spring Street.
It's just hard to turn your back on a home.


  •  





Hamilton, Ontario lyrics

This crazy old man
on Main Street in Hamilton, Ontario
plays an outrageous squacking noise
on the harmonica
for loose change,
inhaling,
exhaling,
wailing any old note,
sounding like a bagpipe being eaten by a goat.

He rolls his eyes,
flails his free arm in circles,
skips this crazy crippled-up dance,
bobbing and stumbling
up and down and around.
It is the saddest sight you could ever look upon.

And I'm standing
in the smelter swelter summer stink
of Hamilton, Ontario -
eyes stinging with the yellow acid
from Defasco and Stelco in the air
and the diesel fumes
gassed from the asses
of the goddamn transit buses
in the same t-shirt and black jeans
I was wearing
when I got on a Greyhound
in Vancouver
4 days ago.
Dumb bum broke.

And I'm thinking, y'know,
you reach a point, inevitably,
where you can't count on anything.
You can't count on the buses being on schedule
or the bank being open.
You can't count on your lover
to not love another
for the month that you are gone.
You can't count on the functions of your body:
your eyes to see clearly,
your ears to hear,
your heartbeat,
your next breath,
your spidey sense.

You can't count on the calendar,
the clock
or the weathervane,
or that you've got it together
when it's obvious
that the rest of this world
is completely insane.

You can't count on the number
on the cigarette package
to connect you with the guy
you met in the bar the night before
who said he'd give you a free ride
to Toronto in the morning.

But you can always count on the fact
that that crazy old man
will be dancing around
on Main Street in Hamilton, Ontario
like a park pigeon
with all its feathers caught on fire.

And there's some small piece of hope in that.


  •  





Political Correctness lyrics

I ate this vegetarian rennetless cheese chapati
at this vegetarian co-op restaurant
on Commercial Drive in Vancouver.

There was a his and her washroom
labelled 'humans'.
Graffiti on the walls read,
'FRUITARIANS RULE,
VEGETARIANS ARE WEAK.'

I reached for some recycled toilet paper
and thought...
it's at times like these
I'd like to club a baby seal to death,
spray it with aerosol hair spray,
strap it to a nuclear missile
and propel it into the ozone.


  •  





Pinocchio lyrics

I work for the circus on the south side of this town.
I'm the down clown with a smile painted over my frown.
And like some rag doll that you found in the trash,
you all kicked me around to get a laugh.

chorus:
I am Pinocchio obsessed with the length of my nose.
Tangled up in strings, I been whittled down to my weary bones,
whittled down to my wooden bones.
I am Pinocchio obsessed with all the lies that I have told, cross-eyed.
Oh, look how my nose has grown. Look how my nose has grown.

This suit of clothes that you've woven me
is much too stiff, too starched, can't seem to bend my knees.
There's knots tied at the end of my sleeves.
This costume doesn't fit naturally.
And this script you put into my hands
is filled with words I refuse to speak.
The longer words I don't understand
and the general tone reeks of hypocrisy.

chorus:

I've been a puppit jerked around on strings,
been a tin soldier used to fight your heavy metal war,
been wired up to your remote control.
I performed every chore that you chose.

The roses are bleeding. The violets are bruised.
This is the bouquet I now send to you.
One plus one is two, two plus two is four they say.
better open up your door, time to settle accounts,
you're the one that's gotta pay.
Hickory-dickory dock, this mouse ran up your clock,
jammed up the works now your time is up.
And three blind mice, see how we run,
better put down your butcher knife
'cause one of us might have a gun.

chorus:

I work for the circus on the south side of this town.
I'm the down clown with a smile painted over my frown.
And like some rag doll that you found in the trash,
you all kicked me around to get a laugh.


  •  





Winnipeg Bus Station Revelation lyrics

Flat-busted in the Winnipeg Bus Station,
my one-way ticket tucked into
my left shirt pocket
to keep it safe
next to my still-beating,
stainless steel heart.
Greyhound bus departing in an hour,
destination: dark realm of Hades
via dead Saskatoon town
and Edmonton.

"Nice three-headed doggy," I say
scratching Cerberus behind one set of ears
to keep him hushed.
I've entrusted Charon
to carry on my baggage:
a guitar,
some books,
a bag of dirty laundry.

I sip acidic coffee reeking of the polluted Styx
from a styrofoam cup,
feel it gnaw
into the side of my empty gut,
and goddamn!
I scratch my stomach and sides in vain.

Oh... now I remember.
It was some days ago.
I accepted from Eve's uglier sister, an apple,
which, like some dumb-assed Adam,
I consumed and
found wormy to the core.

Dismounting, she showed me her heels
and I paid for my meal
with my 180 pounds of flesh
now crawling with crabs.

Damn!

I don't blame her though.
Every serpent must gag
on his own tail sometime,
I suppose.
It's my fault my ass hits asphalt.
Some of us never read the hieroglyphics,
never heed the writing on the wall.

But I know I'm not alone.
Look around.

See that woman there
with the two boys
in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle tennis shoes
and Mickey Mouse sweatshirts
tied to her wrists
with telephone cords?
She's so bored and defeated.

And the bum in the Sally-Ann suit
picking the longer butts
from the ashtray
for a shred of tobacco
to help cut the hunger.

And the recession-battered businessman
searching for solace in the Globe and Mail,
smokin' and chokin' on his cigar.
(The both of them,
bum and businessman,
have the same traffic accident faces,
cracks spreading from
the shattered windshields
of their eyes,
are only distinguishable by
the cut of their suits,
the cut of their tobacco.)

And the long-haired son of a biker
pushing a mop and pail,
pack of smokes tucked
into the sleeve
of his black
Iron Maiden t-shirt
above his Harley-Davidson-forever-fuck-the-world tattoo.
(Now does that cat judge his progress through life
by how many slippery-when-wet signs
he leaves behind?)

By the can
an Indian pushes shoepolish hash
at 20 bucks a cheat gram
on an out of work carny
on the way to her dad's funeral.
The Indian's love/hate knuckles are bruised,
his left eye black and blue,
"but you should see the other guy,"
he says and laughs
throwing his head back
to display his lack of front teeth.

And the security guard just watches
but he's given up
on filling the demands
of his uniform.
He lights a cigarette,
scratches his balls,
yawns,
and dreams
of going back to daddy's farm.

Yup,
just the no-win situation
in the Winnipeg Bus Station,
that's all.
Some of us never read the hieroglyphics,
never heed the writing
on the wall.

Suddenly, a thin beam of revelatory light
pierces the grimy skylight,
focuses on my forehead,
pries open my bloodshot
inner eye.

I feel the heat and the weight of it,
my mind impaled by light.

The interlocking varicose veins
that lace through the very flesh
of this universe
are laid bare to me.
I have been touched by the hands of God!
(Though I can see
he forgot to clean his nails.)

Suddenly,
I see the 7 billion hallucinations
of grandeur that motivate us,
the 7 billion pathways to the grave
like a labyrinth
of randomly chosen lost dreams
and false beliefs,
the 7 billion faces of God laughing
as we beat ourselves yet again
to our billions of knees.

And suddenly,
I know that it's not your fault,
my fault,
their fault
that we act out the same history
over and over and over again,
changing only the names
and dates
to protect the insane,
not our fault that we re-write,
romanticize and glorify
to give meaning
to our small grim lives,
not our fault that experience becomes
idea becomes
symbol becomes
empty of meaning,
that spirit becomes religion,
mythology,
fairy tale,
is forgotten,
that value becomes
money becomes
debt and enslavement
becomes
death
at the hands of thieves,
not our fault that lost Atlantis becomes
Ancient Rome becomes
New York,
Paris,
Moscow,
London,
becomes the no-win situation
in the Winnipeg Bus Station.

Then, in a rush,
the vision is hushed,
the light shut off,
and again I am as empty as my styrofoam cup,
itchy as hell,
hungry,
hungover.

I start to sift through pocket change,
move in increments of nickels and dimes
toward a fresh pack of smokes
and I think of how alone we all are,
how alone I am,
alone with
mother,
brats,
bum,
businessman,
janitor,
carny,
pusher,
farmerboy security guard
and a couple hundred crabs,
alone,
with my bus ticket
next to my stainless steel heart,
wearing my barbed wire crown,
with my corroded soul,
my punctured guts
and my pretty,
pretty face,
alone,
and strangely
satisfied
with it all.


Deeds of Dogs and Heroes


  •  


Recorded: 1993
Musicians: Scott Wicken





If... lyrics

poetry be dead
I beat my bones
upon the coffin
lid


  •  


Recorded: 1993
Musicians: Scott Wicken

Written after Dave Delorme who I treeplanted with in Northern Ontario.





Crazy Dave lyrics

Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
I haven't seen hide nor shaggy head
of that boy in 4 years.
You'd know him if you met him, man.

He had long red Raggedy-Andy hair
he'd wear in two pigtails,
had a Harley Davidson handlebar moustache,
wore workboots,
baggedy-assed dirty jeans,
2 blue tattoos
and a sunburn.
Played harmonica like the cat lost his balls.

Yup,
Crazy Dave...
had a toothy smile as big as my hand,
always chewed on a toothpick
or a long blade of grass,
drank from the bottle,
rolled the worst cigarettes,
was impervious to insect bites,
was one of the best damn
tree planting highballers
east of Prince George.

Never went anywhere without his damn dog,
german shepherd,
name of Karma,
completely loyal,
sang in key to any Bob Dylan tune
which is something
even Dylan couldn't do.

Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?
Has anybody heard from Crazy Dave?

Now the cat couldn't spell to win a bet
but he carried a battered notebook
full of his poetry -
more soul per square word
than the Lord's Prayer.

He was the kind of guy that called a spade
a shovel, a violin
a fiddle, and a lady
ma'am.

I don't even know why I think of him now,
maybe because he never told me a lie
he'd have to apologize for later,
because he'd speak to a guy straight,
eyeball to bloodshot eyeball,
like he never even had a secret,
or maybe because the last time I saw him
he and his dog Karma
were howling the sweetest blues
out on a rock
on Bad Vermillion Lake
in Northern Ontario
at 4 am.

I remember,
the full moon was hard-pressed
to blink back her silver tears.
And even the Aurora Borealis
kicked off her dancing shoes,
sat back, cracked a beer,
and sighed
"ooohhh, craaazy."

And that's a fact,
man.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken
Musicians: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Ron Serna in the Gothic Basement of the Universe, Edmonton.

I used to take the bus from Toronto to Vancouver when it cost $99. It took 3.5 days or so and was quite an adventure.





Duffel Bag Shuffle lyrics

i got all my stuff strewn all over the floor
and it's all gotta go out the door by morning
when the sun comes up
gonna be on that bus by the break of dawn

it's toronto to vancouver, man, a three day trip
and I'm gonna make the most of it
gotta bottle of scotch and a carton of cigarettes
yeah, gonna be on that bus by morning

it's the duffel bag shuffle, man
i'm doing it again
gotta find my toothbrush
none of my clothes are clean
and larry still owes me 40 bucks
man, this city stole all my luck

and i'm tired of seeing the same tired faces
i forgot to say good-bye to my favourite waitress
sold all my books to pay for my phone bill
gotta stay away from my landlord
'cos i owe him still

yeah, i'm in a hustle to get away
looks like i'm doing the duffel bag shuffle again
oh that coast is calling my name
vancouver, calling my name

and i'll think of you when i'm on the road
'cos this country's almost as big as your soul
and i'll think of you when i'm in the rocky mountains
'cos you've given me a rocky mountain of pain

and i'll occupy a barstool
down at funky winkerbeans on west hastings street
'til I can't remember what you did to me
then i'll sit on the beach at kitsilano
and let the dirty ocean wash me clean

and if you ever think of looking me up
just give a call to joe's cafe
yeah, i'll be sippin' cappuccinos in joe's cafe
and all this shit...
be just a memory


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan at Cramer Brothers Productions, Edmonton.

While treeplanting there are long hours spent working alone. The mind wanders. In my case, it wandered over and over the choices I had been making in my urban life. Somehow, I was living opposite to what I thought I believed. This poem, although containing a lie, was a catharsis.





Two Stamp Shuffle lyrics

I work this burnt black landscape,
?the sun beating rhythms
??on my burnt red back,
planting rows of trees
?in tight stitches
??to sew a broad green garment
???for the earth momma's back.

I do the step, cut, wrench, man,
I do the two stamp shuffle,
?to crank another tree
??into the soil.
I do the step, cut, wrench, man,
I do the two stamp shuffle,
?to add another day
??to this lifetime of toil.

My blood beats along my electric veins.
My blood beats along my electric veins.
The tribal beat of my heart
?rocks my frame,
??rocks my frame.

I'm so alive. I am so fast.
I'm so alive. I am so fast.
I'm so alive. I am so fast.
I have become a machine.
Nothing matters but the pace of the trees
?and my mind drifts uncontrolled
??through past memories.

?The rock rises from the gutted land like the spine on that Indian girl's whip-scarred back. Do you remember? Yeah I remember. I was 16. She took me by my hand and led me from the Friday night dance to a group of trees behind the skating rink, unzipped my jeans, bent down and took me in her mouth. I was so frightened, just 16. My knee quivered in fear. Leaning against a tree, I could feel the rough bark against my smooth back, could feel her pulse of her blood with the pads of my thumbs. Oh, her blood pumped in syncopation to the beat beating of my heart which rocked my frame, rocked my frame. I moved my hands around, moved them down the neck of her t-shirt - heat mixed with heat. Fingertips felt the scars, the disruption of flesh and skin. What animal has done this, I thought? What animal has done this? Just 16. Mosquitoes descended in clouds sensing heat and pulse and probed for blood and sucked at life and sucked at meat and heat rose. I touched the stars on her back and stared at the night scars in the sky.

I work this burnt black landscape
?the sun beating rhythms
??on my burnt red back
planting rows of trees like tight stitches
?to sew a broad green garment
??for the earth momma's back

my blood beats along my electric veins
my blood beats along my electric veins
my blood beats along my electric veins

the tribal beat of my heart
?rocks my frame
??rocks my frame
my mind drifts unrestrained
??through past memories

?Sucked of blood, sucked of semen, I rolled in the gravel ,took the beating. There were 4 of them, Indians in work boots and baseball caps panting from the exertion as they worked me over. Just 16. At first I resisted, tucked in tight to protect my organs, my balls, my head. But I soon gave into the blows to get it over with. Bones bent towards breaking, Ribs audibly strained towards cracking. Do you remember? Yeah, I remember. I was 16. There was pain. They weren't serious. They didn't want to kill me, wanted surrender instead. They had a message, had something to say that couldn't be spoken, something beyond words. I got it. I understood and they left. I lay there and I listened to the beat beating of blood in the veins of my bruised meat, my flesh, my body. And I felt the bass and the drums from the band at the dance rock my frame. I stared at the sky. Twinkle, twinkle little scars. All light moved out and all dark moved in.

I do the step cut wrench man
I do the two stamp shuffle
?to crank another tree into the soil
I do the step cut wrench man
I do the two stamp shuffle
?to add another day to this lifetime of toil

I'm so alive. I am so fast
I'm so alive. I am so fast
I'm so alive. I am so fast
I have become a machine
Nothing matters but the pace of the trees
?and my mind drifts uncontrolled
??through past memories

?1987. Summer. Friday night. The Trash brothers, Small Fry and myself sat at the kitchen table in the apartment above King Street mixing and fixing into the night; the table cluttered with cotton balls, bleach, spoons, glasses of bloody water, razors and mirrors, carefully divided piles of coke. I was the envy of the table, the veins of my inner arms a clear road map to Heaven. I could hit every town on the way, easy. Do you remember? Yeah, I remember. I was 21. I soaked a tab of white clinical acid with an eighth gram of coke, loaded, probed, found the meat of the vein, viewed the red flag of blood rise in the clear liquid in the syringe and plunged home. The clock ticked 5 audible seconds. Heartbeat accelerated. The mind rushed up and the body followed. Meat filled with electricity, screamed upwards, a gleaming missile of bright metal flesh pierced the sun and the world was a roar moving past me. Just 21. Hours later in the dim light of the filthy washroom, I shook in the mirror, shirtless, my pale thin body a bag of filth and I couldn't recognize myself. I couldn't recognize myself. What animal have I become, I thought? What animal have I become? Just 21 and I couldn't meet my own eyes in the mirror.

my blood beats along my electric veins
the tribal beat of my heart
?rocks my frame
??rocks my frame

I'm so alive. I am so fast.
I'm so alive. I am so fast.
I'm so alive. I am so fast.

I reach for a tree, fail to feel the prick of black spruce needles so I undo the catch of my belt, lift off the shoulder straps, dump the excess dirt to the ground and sit on a stump to roll a Drum. God, it feels so good when the bags are empty. I inhale deep, the smoke, my sweat, the damp sweat of the sweet dirt, the burnt odour of charred twigs and stumps. Suddenly, from a nearby pile of duff scurries a small brown mouse, running like hell, a 3 foot long snake in pursuit. Instantly the Indian girl returns to me, the mosquitoes, the boots, the grit of life, the guilt. The million slights of history and time come to a fixed point and I thrust my shovel out, separate the snake clean, send it twisting into the twigs bleeding, squirting gore. The mouse scurries to safety. Oh, I am 25. I am clean. I am clean. I am 25. I am...alive.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan at Cramer Brothers Productions, Edmonton.





Zipper lyrics

The parked cars
lining each side of the street
are the precise metal teeth
of a zipper of concrete.

To undo America,
I would simply unzip,
separate city blocks like pieces of cloth
to display the big brown nude beneath.

Ssshhh.

I suspect she is
?asleep.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan at Cramer Brother Productions, Edmonton

Originally published in Dead Tree Product.





In Her Washroom lyrics

Standing in her washroom:
lipsticks,
combs,
brushes,
mirrors,
perfumes,
28-day supply of the pill,
box of Tampex.

There's a small oriental print
on the wall with characteristic bent trees
like old men with crippling spines.

Black rug, shower curtain, toilet seat cover,
porcelain painfully white.

There's an old bathtub
with 4 legs,
as if it walked,
as if it were some white,
polished pet.

Peeling plastic flowers
like footsteps
arrive at
the obligatory yellow stain
circling the drain.

On the top
of the back
of the toilet
is a small black bowl
filled with fancy,
fragrant
soap balls.
Avon.

The plastic garbage container,
also matching black,
has one Kleenex,
lipstick-smudged,
and a Q-tip
without earwax
on either end.

I came in here to piss,
but it's so feminine here
that to expose myself
would be some form
of the subtlest rape.
I leave the washroom
and tell her that I am going to the store.
I piss on a bush
in her neighbour's backyard,

like a man.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan for Cramer Brother Productions, Edmonton.





Soul Surgery lyrics

It's a simple operation, no pain.
Your soul, framed in hospital white, looks lovely.
But see the discoloration, the slight stain, here?
Malignant growth, has to go.

When I apply electricity see how it jerks
as if in fear?
Cross-section reveals cancer.
Has to go.
Scalpel please.
With a cut cut here and a cut cut there.
Won't hurt a bit.

Don't worry.
I can put it back together,
better than before.
I have precise hands,
can weave perfect stitches.

90% chance of success.
Odds are in your favour.
Inconsequential side effects.
Sign this consent form, here, the dotted line.

Thank-you.

Oh oh, don't like the looks of that!
This sort of thing spreads and
can conquer every cell of your being and
it has to go.
With a cut cut here and a cut cut there.

Does that hurt?
You know what they say: no pain, no gain.
Oh, don't be such a baby.
Here, have a candy.

Just a few more stitches.
Don't be so impatient.
You know what they say: patience is a virtue.
And a tight little knot.
Why, I don't think I've ever tied one tighter.

Here, look in the mirror.
Oh, such a look of horror.
Don't be silly, I told you about the margin of error.
Nothing that a little therapy can't fix.
A few scars add character.
Be strong.

To tell you the truth, I think it's pretty
in a strange
sort of way.
You know what they say: beauty is in the eye
of the beholder.

Give it a week.
You'll get used to it.
You will adapt and here, have a Kleenex.
You're making a mess.
You know what they say: don't cry over spilt milk.

I'm sorry.
I really am.

Margin of error.
You know what they say: nobody's perfect.

Come back next week.
Pay at the front desk.
I never made any promises you know.
Ah... next.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan at Cramer Brother Productions, Edmonton.





Apology lyrics

Here I am,
a burn victim of habit
the sum of my scars,
my face a patchwork of grafts
from the skin of my ass.

Pulled by stars, planets,
perhaps I am the cosmos' Pinocchio
a-tangle in strings,
obsessed with the length of my nose.

Will and Destiny
sit on the curb
by the war memorial
disguised as blind men,
flipping coins, rolling dice,
flipping coins, rolling dice,
gambling for my life!
Damn! Snake eyes, again.

I propose that it's the full moon
in each of your sockets
that influence my behaviour.

My 7 senses need a tune-up.
The pistons in my heart misfire.
My thoughts are as random
as tin cans on a string
in the wind.

When I reach a fork
in the path
I allow one foot
to follow each
and my loins will stretch no further.

They say that I am a dream,
alive while asleep,
unaware while awake,
as I grope in this darkness
for a pen
and a clean pair
of underwear.

They say that I am a pawn of God,
that I have forgotten
the Goddess within,
that my chaos
is an unrevealed
higher order.

I just want to let Schroedinger's cat
out of the bag.

So, here I am,
halfway into a triple espresso,
smoking the filter
of a cigarette,
and that is supposed
to have something to do
with everything.

Listen,
the reason for last night's
indiscretion
was an upset applecart
in China
in 1957
and a nightmare I had
about running
until my veins exploded.

I am truly sorry.


  •  


Recorded: 1992
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Engineered by Dennis Sheehan at Cramer Brothers Productions, Edmonton.





Where Do the Souls of Children Go? lyrics

I remember we lived in the country,
 on a corner surrounded by cornfields,
cornstalks standing in strict rows
 as if congregated in sorrow,
  bowing and whispering softly
   among themselves
    to be respectful.

I remember our home,
 the squat, converted, one-room schoolhouse,
with cracks etched across white-washed cement,
 deep windowsills wide enough to sit in,
furniture reaped from auction sales:
 church pews,
 washstands,
 bedroom bureaus.

I can see my mother now as she was then,
 younger, thinner,
hair tied back with a worn handkerchief,
 wiping sweat from her eyes
  with the back of a wrist,
my mother,
 sanding and staining antiques,
  smoothening the surfaces to a mirror sheen
 so richly-hued wood spirits
  could and would
   dance within the varied grains.

And the odour of country cooking:
 honey,
 spice,
 hot paraffin wax.
I remember coughing
 from the corrosive reek of vinegar
   while canning pickles in the kitchen.

All this returns and more still,
 a succession of moments
unearthed like artifacts from my own lost history:
 the crippled-with-rust swing
  beside the sandbox
   that sang as I swung,
 the kicked-up dust from the road
  that settled on every leaf and blade,
 the sharp tang of fresh-picked mint
  on the tip of the tongue,
 the thousand nicks and scratches
  of childhood play.

I knew the character of every tree,
 knew the climbing technique
  required of each.
I would sit in the uppermost branches
 to see the countryside spread out
  like a patchwork quilt.
Leaves whispered to me in strange tongues.

Pig shit,
 cow shit,
  shit smells everywhere,
insinuated even
 within the weave of my clothes
so,
still now,
the occasional country drive
 is assaulted by clear glass memories
  released by the key of fecal aroma.

And in the backyard,
 cordoned off by a fence of thick black chain,
  was a cemetery of some hundred plots
   left over from a once-church
    long since burned down.

Beneath tombstones
 (like brutal teeth
  stuck tight in strong grass gums)
lay children plucked by epidemics,
 cut down
  like flowers well before blooming.
I gazed in wonder at lambs and cherubs
 chiselled in stone
  slowly eroding
   over these forgotten infants.

The environment was a symphony,
 alive and awake,
oblivious to the overwhelming silence
 of the dead and asleep just six feet deep:
  the hum of bees,
  the quiet roar of distant passing cars,
  the rhythm of the so-hot sun
  beat-beating on my
   little
   boy
   back.

I remember in summer days,
 my father propped against his double bass,
as if caressing the resonant flesh
 of a red-resined woman
  to coax her to moan in the lowest tones.

And I,
 alone in the cemetery,
  would pick wild strawberries
   which flourished in the rich soul
    on the raised mounds.
They were so small.
I picked hundreds to fill a single coffee cup.

And I remember now,
 with the antiquated clockworks of childhood logic
  still keeping time
   in the dusty backrooms of
    my adult mind,
I was convinced
 that the strawberry juice
  staining red my tiny pink fingers
   was the blood of those below,
and that the tiny berries I consumed
 contained the reincarnations
  of their little
   lost
      souls.


Home Recordings/Demos


  •  


Recorded: 2018
Produced By: Scott Wicken

Written in Edmonton in the mid-90's.





As God Looked On lyrics

"Arise," cried the one-eyed dog.
"Whatever," wailed an ambulance.

A garbage truck ate breakfast
up one side of the street
then the other
as God looked on.

Mother Night heaved herself against the ass end of a new day
and shoved it through the crack of dawn,
and lo it was born,
and Glory Glory,
it was the same old story
from sea to scummy sea.

The sun bloomed like a bullet wound
against the blue uniform of the sky.
and Nostradamus, the weatherman,
swore under his breath,
"damn, wrong again,"
and decided to retire
as God looked on.

Swallows sang the 1812 Overture
and the radio played Wild Horses.
Seagulls wove celtic knotwork above
a brass band playing Pachelbals Canon
in a Taco Bell parking lot
as God looked on.

One million fresh secretaries made
two point five million peanut butter sandwiches,
and sent the kids off to school,
got into one million cars
and drove off one by one, harrah harrah,
to get stuck in traffic,
as God looked on.

And he laughed a bellyful then,
as all that He had made slowly came undone." rows="6" cols="150">In the beginning God made coffee
and tasting of it he knew that it was good.
He strolled out to the front porch,
in his Hugh Hefner housecoat,
lit up a Cuban stogey,
and sat down in the lazy boy to wait.

"Wake up," rang various church bells.
"Arise," cried the one-eyed dog.
"Whatever," wailed an ambulance.

A garbage truck ate breakfast
up one side of the street
then the other
as God looked on.

Mother Night heaved herself against the ass end of a new day
and shoved it through the crack of dawn,
and lo it was born,
and Glory Glory,
it was the same old story
from sea to scummy sea.

The sun bloomed like a bullet wound
against the blue uniform of the sky.
and Nostradamus, the weatherman,
swore under his breath,
"damn, wrong again,"
and decided to retire
as God looked on.

Swallows sang the 1812 Overture
and the radio played Wild Horses.
Seagulls wove celtic knotwork above
a brass band playing Pachelbals Canon
in a Taco Bell parking lot
as God looked on.

One million fresh secretaries made
two point five million peanut butter sandwiches,
and sent the kids off to school,
got into one million cars
and drove off one by one, harrah harrah,
to get stuck in traffic,
as God looked on.

And he laughed a bellyful then,
as all that He had made slowly came undone.

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