Twice Volcanicized

by Cannonball Statman

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Cannonball's 18th official release.


released April 5, 2016

Cannonball wrote, performed, and produced the songs, in Brooklyn, NY on April 5th, 2016. The Elusive and Terrible Wendifer designed the album cover, in Cobourg, ON and Brooklyn, NY, during the springtime.



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Cannonball Statman New York, New York

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Track Name: Kinda Rock and Roll
the band,
we were playin',
and the audience was swayin';
we were playin'
a silly kinda rock and roll,
we were playin'
that business card,
music that the tourists go wild for,

out of the crowd came a

"They need a vigilante to suffocate the masses!
And a nightmare station,"

(to do
me in.)

"They need a battle of the bands to stay afloat
in this comical game,
and the doctors need more money
(or at least more honey)
to pass this infringement exam!"

We need a green room
to act real silly,
and a nightmare station
to do me in;

and then,
I'll die.

It's an easy pie.
Track Name: L'amour du Papier
Track Name: The Virgin Mortician
In droves,
materializing from all directions,
on twice volcanicized thrice frenetic avenues;

in homicidal evergreen tree idols,
streets once devastated by smiles,

in death, in birth,
in flawless execution,
in suicide
in the virgin mortician's marathon mind,
in trash heap remains of his virginity
in Virginia, in New York,
in conspiracy.

As in,
he fought the law,
and it was a war.
The law
is a broken record
in the optical illusory record store,

and I'm in love
with the way that he spoke,
with the crumple in his face,
and the cool in his fate,
and the clock in his stomach,
and the knuckles on his forehead,
and the blood on his teeth,
and the freeze in his brain,
and his breast in his breast,
the trash heap heap trash bang anti-paradiddle;
the lightning pricked
my tongue my gun
the smoke
dribbled down his gun
done done.

He was gone within a year,
but everybody saw him;
oh, you mean the virgin mortician?!

I mean the virgin mortician;
I'm in the virgin mortician!

I'm in the mortician.
Track Name: Buxus Revisited
I'm standing on the table,
watching your eyes fall
back into the sun;

I'm standing on the table,
you're standing underwater,
over the edge again.

I stopped following my demons;
I still can't move.
Track Name: Rats and Reptiles
In seclusion,
Chaquina throws fecal matter
at a mirror;

and through one brave sliver of light shining into my room,
I see a grown woman of fourteen years scare the putrid life out of
a gang of armed guards,
flinging her legs and fists
across the universe.

Hey Doctor,
why are we on lockdown again?

There's no emergency on Ward 7 North;
only dreadful poison oxygen
and rage and religion
and nightmare television
and poser cronyism.

Hey Doctor,
take me fishing;

I want to lick hieroglyphic spit formations around
your rotator cuff,
as tomorrow's sushi machinery
breaks down slowly,
violently trashing over your syringe-worthy hands,
over the river, gasping, flailing
'till she utters her last flap,
her final offering to the cold universe,
her magnum opus;

surely she knew her last taste of this precious manic waltz
was delivered by the hands of a master clinician,
a great healer,
a true friend,
a profoundly sentient aristocrat of unfathomable virtue
who would kill to taste her flesh,
and even graciously allowed my pedestrian hands
to beat my guitar strings
in heretically clumsy syncopation
with the sealing of her fate.

Hey Doctor,
let's never do that

What's up, Doc?
Your heart's been
all week.

Hey Doctor,
do you ever see things that aren't there?

Do you ever feel so lonely
that you just want to

Do you wanna dance with somebody,
with somebody who loves you?

I can help with that.

Because in droves,
materializing from all directions,
trillions of lost souls in ailing vessels
made the mighty pilgrimage to this overpriced island
to see you,

with tumors and compulsions and convulsions, palpitations
and earthquakes and cancers and scurvy and pimples
and pneumonia and amnesia and lyme disease
and endlessly evolving paranoid fantasies,
suicidal heartthrobs, slain dissidents and slaves,
freakish fetishists and pioneers of abstinence,
Motörhead and aliens and absinthe,
and the quietest man you've never heard
and Odyssean sirens and awkward blood transfusions,

a girl who lies habitually, but sits upright in bed
with boys and wounded vultures,
while Williamsburg transplants eat trash to save cash
and one-up the natives below the poverty line,
while stingy art professors sell propagandized adolescence
to cults of narcotized codependent students,
and some boys on Malcom X Boulevard dream of California,
as a lone Grandmaster Flash track cuts
through the midsummer rat piss power drill noisescape:

from the air,
under the door,
behind you,
behind your office.

He's dead;
he's whining
outside your office!

He's death;
he's waiting,

he brought
he could take
he brought,
he brought
with him,

They're waiting outside!
They all came to see

(That's what you wanted, right?)

Hey Doctor,
I'm concerned!

Your blood pressure is alarmingly high today,
and your face is so pale!

I can see the imploding remnants of your fragile mutant ego,
falling through your legs and the floorboards into the sewer
around the cockroach colonies,
decomposing in a vicious airborne fetal devolution scum dance
before the eyes of rats and reptiles;

I can see your first and final teardrop,
sliding around your face
along the side of your nose.

That teardrop knows
it'll hit the floor without a sound,
its purpose served within a matter of seconds.

Hey Doctor,
the people will see you now.
Track Name: Riverside Park
The man on the bus
was causing a fuss!
A fuss
for both of us!

He took his own life;
a bullet,
straight through his heart!

Was a tragic work of
performance art.

I must admit,
I saw his soul
flying out of the hole
in his chest hole hole chest hole
chest chest hole
into the air;

flew uptown, took a sharp left
into the ground
without a sound
into Riverside Park!

Severe palpitations of his heart;
gone back home,
back to Riverside Park.

Track Name: I've Become the Ghost
I've become the ghost
that lives in your apartment;

my neck hangs from a rope,
in between the dishes
in the floorboards,

in the mirror
in your apartment
under the river,

outside your head
where you live,
you're the driver.

It's been a long night;
you've been workin' real hard
in your head.
Track Name: It's Been a Long Night
The singer said singing was his first love,
before professing it'd be his last.
I thought, "man, that's quite a profession
to spill into an hourglass,"

but I did the same thing,
and I've got an hourglass;
she's my best friend,

but this ain't about friends,
and it ain't about me,
it's about what makes your hair curl,
and your blood boil.

'Cause you're a liar, a coward, and a clown,
but there's about two million of those in my hometown;

oftentimes the blackout drunk decisions of a power hungry few
are absurd enough to outweigh the sum

of every soul in this village.
It happens every day where I'm from.

I'm sitting on the couch,
in the underground jazz bar;
it's a Friday night,
everybody's walking around

trying to be cool.
Trying to be trendy
like a good old fashioned HAL 9000;


I'm like

"give me some life,
give me some passion;
give me some energy."

But I'm a liar, a coward, and a clown,
like almost everyone in every town;

oftentimes, the blackout drunk decisions of a powerful few
are absurd enough to outweigh the sum

of all the life in the West Village (if there is any left).
It happens every day where you're from.

There must be something I can dream tonight;
there must be something I can dream.