The three parted ways,
in exchange for a brief trip to the far corners of the human eye
where dogs still bark onto recordings of songs about you,
written by our fathers and shoved down your throat
(like you weren't even looking);
yes I said it,
and for once you were the victim.
YES!
I failed with you as you failed with me, and
gold became a useless cover.
To paint oneself with euphemisms to lie,
and a lie is only to avoid campaigning in other dimensions
for spare change
and to parade into unknown corners of
Brooklyn trapped inside the neon clown.
Gold became a useless cover,
and to paint the world with euphemisms is to trust you
with dreams of escaping into worlds fueled by fluorescent lights
tall hotels and Hi8 video tapes of smiling rodents in coffee shops,
with dreams of infinity and guitars that looked like fire
and driving uselessly on the highway of blue dimensions
for spare change.
I never trusted you
with your fears when thunder and lightning struck
that they would murder you
and I
believed you
(but only for a second),
until I realized I was driving into the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel
under an awning of blue.
You painted it gold
(when you said you were tolerant);
when you said you couldn't paint,
you were right and you would fall face first
into the New York City Transit System and
nothing
would be there to take you out
(when you said you were tolerant).
The sidewalks were by now covered with vaseline
and memories of thinking you were at all close to me,
but
gold became a useless cover,
and I realized you were as human as I had ever imagined you to be.
Sometimes you would dance in public all the time sometimes
this was a lie
sometimes you admitted you weren't sure about the Dali painting sometimes
this was a joke sometimes
you would've been perfectly willing to paint the sky
gold,
but sometimes blue or red and you
realized you had
no one.
You didn't know if I of all people could handle this;
you made a mistake, I made more
on the road to fame, I sang
"it's a game of luck, and a game of lies.
I'm not willing to apologize."
But why not?
I made a mistake, you made more;
who cares?
In the end, who knows
what was right and what was wrong, because
in the end, you made mistakes, I made mistakes,
there were never three (there were), but
at the end of the day, we are only able to do so much
before something else has begun,
and when I was puzzled, because things kept ending and going away,
you might've told me the same exact thing
because we are all waiting
to go on a trip to the far corners of the human eye
with coffee and Food Network and tea dedicated to the Grateful Dead
and screaming at Rachael Ray and stepping on ice cubes
and standing by the light
and ending things and beginning things new and old and
pizza
and stombolis
and celebrating Brooklyn with awesome movie scores
and coming home two minutes later to write a song about
outsourcing
and waiting to watch obscure Canadian comedy
and videotaping near the end with green lights blue lights
and finally turning on the real lights to film
the closing sequence,
and then sleeping
waiting for the morning
so we could film
the epilogue.
5 NYC antifolk luminaries, and 1 Cannonball, all did a couple live recordings for William Blake's birthday in 2014. I got a concussion jumping off a chair during my first song. It was tons of fun. Cannonball Statman
Live EP recorded in Berlin during my 2017-'19 world tour, a few hours after Cannonball (the Labrador retriever I was named after) passed on to the next dream. Cannonball Statman
The latest from sean thornton explores dark themes, but they’re handled with a delicate grace in these beautiful bedroom pop songs. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 25, 2022
