The Cinderella EP Lyric Sheet

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Double Country Bonus Bundle Lyric Sheet

I Don't Know About You

Demonlover (Olivier Assayas, 2002)

With dispensation from upper management I achieved orgasm on an interplanetary Zeppelin. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. Crashed through the ceiling in something revealing with tingling in the earring and a dearth of proper learning as I’d been too busy scrubbing Ethel Merman and abjuring. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. A girl’s got to keep her skin real right and that’s why we only go out for dumplings at night. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. She took the Chevy to the levy and I’m afraid she gone and rolled it, crawled out from under, dusted herself off, and bolted. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you. When you see them coming and you ain’t busy doing something, jump off that crate of Pabst Blue Ribbon and wipe off the spot where you been dribbling; there’s an army of kooks with semiautomatics saying they want to impound the station wagon and flagellate the missus, doing a fancy jig so that court summons can’t hit us. I don’t know about you. Since when does a computer wear tennis shoes? I don’t know about you. The soggy onion ring looks like you when you’ve had a few and wake up lost in New Orleans at 4:30 in the morning, lizard people swarming. I don’t know about you. Down at the stud farm they believe themselves conscientious, but they’ll pound your ass sideways at any sign of wetness, dagnabit, and cast a spell so you immediately forget it. How can I persuade you, he who misplayed you, cut himself shaving and  affixed a small piece of tissue, that if the President of the Union of Situationships can't bend over backward for his friends from the syndicates, I’m-a smoke a blunt in his hiding place and wait to see the motherfuckin look on his face. I don’t know about, I don’t know about, I don’t know about you.

Cowboy, Hellfire

The Doom Generation (Gregg Araki, 1995)

Prepared to meet my maker I advanced upon the horde, I swung my sword and screamed and roared, from the heavens I heard a low, rumbling chord. The gates of hell opened up beneath, I tumbled in holding my testicles in my teeth and laid all out like a Christmas wreath. I guess that I was the most recent thief, all they gave me for ornament was this paltry leaf. I swear, I swear, it were not as though I were unaware, prancing around with my testicles hanging down, I just don’t care, round after round, a resounding sound. You are a loser. You have no control over yourself. How do you expect to take control of the room if you need to sometime soon? Jesus Hellfire Club Christ, the nine pound dildo that killed John Henry ain’t gonna kill me, Lord, ain’t gonna kill me. What do you mean accessory to the crime? I was out back having a pee. It’s my birthday, you fat fuck. Duck and cover, Moscow’s here, catch chlamydia by its ear, if the Irish don’t chase you out...you’ll earn yourself a bit of deadly clout. From the weaponized perspective of the local anesthetic everyone’s a proper dummy with big globs of cotton filling up their tummy, maybe they say ‘hi there’ and maybe they Shazam, maybe I get a read on what’s going on on the The Infotainment Scan. Your mamma raised a better girl than straightforward vanilla sex. To love a cowboy proper you say happy trails to all the rest.

Clara-fication

 

MemoratorXXV

The Red Badge of Courage (John Huston, 1951)

Nashville (Robert Altman, 1975)

When at age thirteen or thereabouts I started getting excited about the wide world of motion pictures I also of course grew resourceful when it came to seeing art movies, world cinema, and off-the-beaten-track fare; seeing stuff and finding out bits and pieces about what had been going on since the late 19th century, movies and fucked-up movie people, from Helsinki to Rotterdam, a lot of it sounding like a whole hell of a lot of fun had indeed gone on...scandals that would cause the jaws of entrenched royal dynasties to fall to the floors and clank. Dignified achievements also. The first international art cinema titans who grabbed me and got me steaming with excitement hot off the bat were Federico Fellini, especially 8½ (1963) and Roma (1972), and Ingmar Bergman, especially Through a Glass Darkly (1961) and Persona (1966). When it came to significant American directors whose films I could rent, watch on TV, or see in a cinema, my predilection was for directors or films who/which demonstrated a distinctive visual approach moment-to-moment that could not be mistaken and that clearly artistically insisted upon itself. 

Living Austro-Hungarian cartoon turtle Billy Wilder spoke to me precisely because I believe the critics are right when they claim that his work is cruel, predatory, and controlled. Peter Bogdanovich can barely handle to hear Billy Wilder’s name. Precisely what I ordered, then, doc—lights, camera, medicine cabinets. As a teen I most liked Double Indemnity (1944) and Sunset Boulevard (1950), surely their being the two most darkly lit in all the filmography. 

Not yet aware of who his super famous dad was or what all that entailed, and many years short of reading Picture, Lillian Ross’s book about that film’s incomprehensibly absurd production, ritual studio butchering, and disownment by near all associated, I remember being deeply touched by the meditative monumentalism and mindful pathfinding in John Huston’s The Red Badge of Courage (1951) when I watched it on TV, an unusual blip in the programming. Because I’d just seen it on video, I could not help but place Huston’s approach in counterpoint with what I’d seen in and absorbed from Stanley Kubrick’s 1957 war tribunal flick Paths of Glory. 

I was fascinated and more than a bit jazzed also by John Frankenheimer because in The Manchurian Candidate (1962) and Seconds (1966) he shoots closeups and people in group formations in a way that is instantly recognizable and totally unlike anybody else’s shit. His use of lenses can have a wonderful power to disturb and his mode is one of persistent disequilibrium, which his very specific style brings over as an ongoing flow of purely cinematic affections. Of the immediately subsequent generation of big deal American directors, it is probably Brian De Palma who most distinctly retains the encoded and encrypted Frankenheimer legacy cipher subdural implant. 

While certain filmmakers and films presented me with stuff that fertilized within me fast or hit me very hard—the experience of first seeing Jean-Luc Godard by way of Prénom Carmen (1983) and being mystified by the fact that for long stretches the soundtrack is intentionally asynchronous with the images surely deserves special evocation—the one time for absolute certain I remember being still very young and having that almost cliché reaction where the tape you are watching ends and the experience has been so powerful for you that you just sit for a considerable period silent and all but motionless....to risk sounding like I’m poor Pauline Kael losing it at the movies all over again...for me it was Robert Altman’s epic 1975 Bicentennial head-fuck Nashville. It is my strong suspicion—and there is a long, juicy history of commentary—that quite a lot of viewers react very strongly to the assassination and eerie denuded stasis that close that very-unpopular-in-Nashville true blue masterpiece of World Cinema Confederated and Entire. In terms of how my literary mind has always worked, Nashville is obviously going to appeal to me because it is a systems or network narrative plotted out over an expansive urban topography with a whole lot of characters intersecting with myriad social institutions and sowing just the right amount of that sweet straight-from-the-gourd discord wherever they may sashay. In Nashville a traffic pile-up on the freeway is a complexitive event closer to what it would be for emergency responders than to some traditional story about a person stalled in traffic and unable to meet their fiancé on time, or what have you. The essentially random shooting of Ronee Blakley’s mentally ill country singer Barbara Jean is both random and impossible to fathom from the perspective of the ground, of the earth. But it is singular and ineffaceable for anybody who has seen the film and who basically trusts their eyes and ears. In the network or systems narrative the random event loses its randomness and is placed back on the surface of the earth in highly intelligent grids and virtual blocks. For me the properly moral implications of Altman’s film and its fatalist ending are that we are each on some level culpable for the nasty little tragedies it takes all of us somehow to produce. Surely, ol’ Hitchcock would give the admiring, throat-clearing salute. Deep down, for Hitch, benevolent sadist uncle and understated humorist, personal but nonetheless too-public culpability was the One Big Game in Town.

  

 

 

The Jason Philip Fiefdom EP Lyric Sheet

1. The Priest He Ain't

Les visiteurs du soir (Marcel Carné, 1942)

It couldn’t have been all that great had you been his mate to watch Chet Baker disintegrate, the scintillating sounds impounded and all world renown downtown with the last of the petty cash walking toward the blackjack table with a cyanide capsule under its tongue and no sign of the chosen one or his cummerbund—the t-shirt that says: “I Went Flaccid at Lake Placid." Winter is even more cold when you are even more old. Tempting though temptation may be, don’t throw that bucket of crude oil at me. Compulsive though the impulses may me, shut your mouth at once and don’t you dare scream. We’re on the same team. Don’t make me mean. You make me mean when you make me mean, and now my own tautology has tipped me over into a blind rage. When I told you I feel more like a lesbian than a heterosexual man that’s mostly because of the magic I can do with my hands. In the Jason Philip Fiefdom we don’t ask to see your documents or papers, we just memorize your face and liquidate you later. Should I be relayed for rest and relaxation that don’t means I get no satisfaction. The whole point of being potentate is to have a great big motherfucking goose on your plate and whatever all else one might require to satisfy the palate entire. We’re building a moat and drawbridge to keep out the human foam. Home is where the human jetsam is kept at bay. Home is electricity.

2. Grunt Work

Underground (Emir Kusturica, 1995)

Well, by God, there it was, the voice of Randy Bachman, reflecting on the legacy of Ronnie Hawkins whilst absentmindedly strumming his acoustic guitar while I’m being waterboarded in an empty warehouse in Qatar. The last I recall I saw Lauren Bacall heading with rue into the Petroleum Highway ball with identical twins, one on each arm. It does not seem to me like I remember much, you see, but Jerry Lee Lewis was there with his little cousin and far be it from me to serve in the function of Morality Police, but if your grandmother’s church group catches wind of this scandal you’ll quickly see you’ve chewed off more than you can handle. I’m going to tear off your tiny t-rex arms and put them on my mantle. I don’t have anything against torture, per se, but I’d like to get up and leave if you’d just kindly look away. Ever since I saw the movie Psycho I can’t get in the shower without sucking on a lightbulb and get alarmingly into the jets whenever I’m alone in the hot tub. War, graffiti, mischief, and trauma, and that’s all the fuck I’ve got to say about that, your honour. Nobody likes a rat. Think of me as like Eazy-E with his baseball bat. If at first it does not go your way collectivize the factory and increase the pay. When nobody remembers your birthday just remember that you are nobody too anyway, with symptoms akin to the flue and the eyes of someone who’s just eaten a whole tube of glue while riding the Merry-Go-Round at the Sarajevo zoo where who’s who depends on your allegiances and the colour of pin you wear on your rugby jerseys. I’ve got twice the wisdom at a third the cost, and there ain’t no use bragging ‘cause I sleep on a blood-stained cot. On Bingo night I wake up a hundredfold. I’ve got all the old ladies’ names writ down in my portfolio. 

3. The Baroness is Not a Piece in Chess

La vie est un roman (Alain Resnais, 1983)

Why all the opprobrium, everyone, over a harmless little opium emporium? The zoning regulations would appear to permit it and my harmless son Jeffery is the sole legal tenant, a talented lad but I’m afraid permanently unrepentant, got him a malevolent penchant, done beat work so long with the P.D. that he’s got his dukes up seeing every single street corner in 4-D, wearing kevlar to the neighbourhood bar, loose 40-caliber shells rolling around in the trunk of his car. What’s he riding? He’ll be riding your aluminum siding, running for election in your riding. Roxanne, goddamn, put on your red light already, the seas of decadence shan’t sail themselves like several thousand translucent elves, clanging Scandinavian bells, survivors of a sea disaster gather marooned around a Fender Stratocaster. Lord, when I said “get me out of here,” you know perfectly well that this isn’t what I meant. This is she and he and me, the baroness and Jeffery and me and whenever Jefferey’s hungry he abruptly punches somebody, so I take a good long look at all and sundry, bow to the baroness in due deference and commence to waltz across the room into the cool stone tomb of yesterday afternoon, hung drawn and quartered, the quarterly lampoon flung open by the spittoon. Chloe in the afternoon? I wouldn’t count on it anytime soon. 1001 Dalmatians playing Halo on they PlayStations. In heaven lovers play leapfrog by a placid pond with a wise old frog who blows bubbles with his ornate pipe. In heaven everyone is animated in the patented Walt Disney style!

4. Terror Terrier 

Nightmare Detective (Shinya Tsukamoto, 2006)

If you were the reigning sovereign of this or that dominion, like Winnipeg, Saskatchewan, or the Compound of the Branch Davidians, Mount Carmel Center, Waco, Texas. Sorry, is it okay to talk about this over breakfast? I remember how bad you got the shits over Bexit, all the taps running from both exists. I write you a sonnet least when you doggone expect it and make the freeway with a hop, skip, and invective, bilocated to Shinjuku as a nightmare detective. I see the bartender has a skull tattoo. I bet we’d hit it off if she’s had a few. Nothing new. If I have to drive this far up Crowchild to meet them, these girl aren’t gonna be my girlfriends. It’s the living end. Am I John Barrymore on a train or is this a plasticine pretend? Amen. Swive them from areshole to maidenhead for all I care. The terror of the terrier loose in your area. Look, little missus, my snout ain’t about bein’ in your business no matter how loud you shout. The secret to the mystery of man is that his soul is in a tin can in an abandoned weather station in Thailand. Something glandular this way cometh. I’ve got a hard-on and a bible and over five hundred unread comments. I’m not the arbiter of laws at all. Not even in the Jason Philip Feifdom. It’s not that kind of racket, son, does not require jacket or tie. Laws are treason.

XOXOXO

 

In Six Unprepossessing Stanzas

From the heavens I was long ago sent

To Thunderbolt the Firmament 

Several winters came and went

A human clotheshorse 

Taught me to squeak—

Now my favourite word is “lozenge.”

The only humanity I’ve ever known

Dandelion pappus windblown

Under the underpass, tunnel & cone

Forty dead shareholders 

Stacked in mutating ratcheted assembly

And the worst is still ahead of me…

The peopled gentry is—kith and kin— 

Like a hammerhead shark

You tear open the belly and watch 

All the grotty goods roll out.

The legendary Payola fiasco 

The Count of Lautréamont

In his Green Nehru Jacket

Doing wheelies at the rundown mini-mall

Apprehending very strong that 

There’s something troubling in the air, b’God…

It emboldened me that time

Back in I think ’65

When it took no time at all 

To make poor William F. Buckley

So awfully goldarn angry at me.

One of the men who was to be counted 

Among his pallbearers 

Told me that former Yippie activist Jerry Rubin

Died doing what he loved the most (pause) jaywalking.

Cosmicus

Tonight those remaining here in the land hub seventeen-and-three-quarter months subsequent to the disappearance of all the Jesuits in their red coats and boots, reached for Friedrich Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols and for the first time brought up nothing but the bile and impotent bluster we’ve maybe not up until now seen for what they are in the grimy green light of our interstellar squat, working conditions appropriate for a poxed wombat with gnarly feral gaze. Bethany-Jane and I went out in a bustle cube and we used an anthracite pad to film and rapidly edit footage of sherbet moraines, blue and purple blister systems with peripheral (distinctly yellow) stellar collapse, and late in the day and for almost three hours a great winding and cascading sweep of very red raspberry globules and sheets. We’re shooting and dropping video like perched hyperactive boll weevils in a barren rocky wasteland trying to text for emergency assistance. Precisely what I imagine it would look like to the satellites. Ha ha, maybe we should ask Andy. I’lI bet he’s wanking his gizzard like a filthy old wizard. Good luck, Goldilocks, with your golden-locked crotch box and pitiful indifferent coin toss. I bet you five Canadian Goonies that Oksekopov and Bloomsbury have you tied up in the infirmary presently, a turkey baster up your keister, Bethany-J-J, if you don’t stop spraying our videos all around, sitting atop sixteen tons of old scrap space metal, earbuds in your ears and feet dangling, cascading translucent ambient phenomena casting you in relief against blackness and bursts of disorienting colour pulse patters from out of the aether itself. 

Bethany-Jane just had the first of three children it has been ordained that we shall have between us. The orbiting mollusk shines on us luckily…and with a chipped tooth…even more lucky. One question neither Bethany-Jane nor myself nor any of the sorry souls remaining ever thought to ask: if a stapler runs out of staples in outer space does anybody hear? Now we’re all here, dangling our cocks like sad, unemployed cobras. Bethany-Jane has no complaint, primary sex characteristics aside—I supply the proper manwork steady and she is eager to receive the brunt of my secret animal lust. I myself am absolved from the requirement of delivering babies, but I could definitely tell that the whole process caused Bethany-Jane too much anguish and suffering to suit her at all. I hope she’s able to get into the swing of things. 

We are no longer drawing enough solar power to run the teleportation equipment. We’re going to have to get everywhere like sullen donkeys, time consuming and arduous, the delirium of endless dull space, dragging our meagre riches unto instant depreciation, the mirages swallowing us alive whole, good and slow. Luckily I am the Peter Pan of sunspots!

During the birth of our third child, Vincent XI9091, Bethany-Jane grew outright surly and even called me a "pipsqueak." I fired back, saying that children had rotted her from the inside and transformed her into a miserable, cosmonaut dyke and with the hideous manners of same. For a while she cut her hair like a boy and dressed like a boy, in homage to her hero Joan of Arc, who she's always spying on using the aethernet monitors aligning the crater the kids in topoanalysis call Big Zep. I bet we'll soon wish we hadn't have put anything of value there, like we're sporting a gigantic sombrero and just asking for it. The Arcade that Challenged God and Got it's Bluff Called. The truth is nobody knows what Bethany-Jane is doing. She took off twelve days ago. With any luck she'll get one of the old synthetic wormholes running on its own residues and make a fortuitous bounce somewhere vaguely hospitable. 

We're bushwhacking it in the Beryl, Station Wagon-like space tech prone to mechanical failure. It's me, Oksekopov, Bloomsbury, Xi, Dieng, Middlemarch, Touré, Andy, Crenshaw, Konyukhova, Kozakov, Kozák, and Bulff. That's about twice as many people as you'd usually want aboard one of these rickety-ass things. Anyway, we're aimed at Mars and Oksekopov is confident we're going to get there. I'm both excited and nervous. I'm about to meet Elon Musk for the first time. Or at least whatever is left of him after all that plastic surgery.

- Hello, Mr. Musk. It is an honour to finally make your acquaintance. I dare say it was worth the brutal trip, you see...

- Shut the fuck up. You are Jeb Weirdbüch, correct? Do you know that you are almost 500? You need to consider the possibility that they're just going to shut you off and delete you when you are 500. I am looking at your statistical output and I am very much making the determination that you are not running worth a damn or for any good reason. You're out of season, Bildungsroman. I'm not any more sensible with the bitches than you are, I can't front, but do you honestly not know where the mother of your three children, the final child making good on our most ancient and pressing prophecy...

 

- The children are with nannies...well, robots...

- Do you honestly not know where your formerly beloved has gone? If I ran businesses the way you run your idiot self there would be no flourishing Tesla Plantation on the not-in-the-end-so-Red Planet. I date widely across all the known planets and I plant my seed wither I wilt. Business and girls work best if you are a bulldozer...if you know what I mean. Another productive day bulldozing over my colleagues, gonna wind down by combing the carpets for crack...

- You are truly a master.

- You said it, Jeb. There is no measure for the universe as seen by somebody as unprecedented as me. Please don't try to make me out to resemble anything, you'll only manage to make yourself look the fool. Since I was a boy I've had the same dream and I think it means I am to be handsome and lavish in my public martyrdom, really taking my time and relishing it, like Trump when he was almost shot or whatever. It was like he was submerged in molasses. Do you remember beautiful Charlie Kirk and how he was martyred? Man, it was so fucking beautiful. Shot in the neck casual as you like. I watched it on repeat for days. Charlie would have been so proud. I mean it, I think he would have been happy to have gone that way.

- Mr. Musk, can you tell me anything about upcoming grain yields that I can take to my people?

- Nothing good.  

I have a small cot on the orbital and the kids and Bethany-Jane are all here. Unless none of this is real. Right? It could be that kind of orbital. I could be a veritable tape loop. The future prerogatives are coming in but they may not find living people or functional robots to receive them. In this barely-paid and labour intensive work—workcamp work, really — I feel myself Superman, Master of Planetoids, and the lovely lady and her satiny cervix call out to me still even more I think than if I were a young man. I almost wish I had never met Elon Musk. When I think back upon him I see a plaster cast of our collective ruin, and I immediately become reluctant to head too far out into outer space. 

I don't care if they delete me when I'm 500 or 5000. I don't have any damn clue when that is! Just drop me and send some robots to gather up the parts, in and out, Bob's your uncle. I want my last thought cut-off mid-thought, and if the Jesuits were still here I'd say that to 'em...boast of it, even. I shall enter paradise swinging for the bleachers. I'm the only half-competent advocate I ever had.

In considering the martyrdom of the weird earthmen, I notice a certain poetry in the wobbly, living élan of those who shift rapidly from normal boring day to...oh no, what the fuck? Then you can zoom in even more until the best weapon in the world will no longer be able to hit the barn door. Bethany-Jane has been reading Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols to the children who are attentive and engaged. These little fuckers are going to be a problem. Here is little Austin ZX88779, eager, pulling at my sleeve. Pappa, pappa, pappa. What is it, by God, you wolfish little man? Pappa, one needn't worry of suffering at the hand of a worthy adversary... Adorable. Ha ha. Got my eye on you, you little fucker. Just like his dad.  

Anyway, all glory unto God. I fit with my brood like a pea in its pod. 

In perpetuity,

Jeb Weirdbüch