Thank you,
you know my brain;
you're the rain in this hell
that keeps me sane.
You're the fallen tree
in the empty woods.
What gives way
to the wolves of this world?
Know it's been awhile, and I owe you;
you're not around anymore.
No, I didn't mean to unfold you;
you're not around anymore.
Behind your eyes, there's nobody;
nobody's home.
Thank you,
you know my name;
the pain of these years
was not in vain.
Take me into your heart,
show me the way;
your strange dreams,
your USA.
My friend works in the black paint factory
in the USA.
She's got a cubicle of cement,
and a faucet.
Turn on the faucet,
black paint runs through the veins of the great beast
into the can; fill up the can,
pass it on down the line.
Repeat today:
yesterday, and every day,
screamin' "ooh ooh, baby, I wanna be
in the black paint factory; doesn't everybody?"
In town, the fuzzy old couples come and go,
screaming of Marilyn Monroe
and JFK and a UFO;
where they all come from, I don't know!
My ex-co-conspirator in the corner
is a shadow of a man
of a shadow; talk to him,
he is a shadow of a shadow of a shadow of a shadow
of a shadow.
Horse tranquilizer kissed the manager of our bar,
so nobody's getting paid; nobody's getting paid.
He's sleepwalking into town from the mouth of a lion,
and the traffic is picking up; he might not last much longer now.
Our sister is alive and well. I got the phone call;
she lives in the ecological district, in a jar.
Horse tranquillized her; she lost so much.
The real stuff; what you can't buy.
She's sleepwalking into town from the mouth of a lion,
but the dragon is firing up; she might not last much longer now.
But tonight, she's alive and well. I got this phone call;
she lives in the ecological district, in a jar.
Horse tranquillized her; she lost so much.
Didn’t we all?
Confined to your room;
your apartment complex.
You're complex;
what isn't?
Confined to your room;
your flat.
You're flat;
get sharp.
Confined to your room;
your bedroom.
You're dead;
get up.
There's this place, the Neon Clown,
perched at the top of Neon Clown Avenue,
in the center of this old town;
the center of our hometown.
I can no longer empathize with you.
I wanted to meet you on your home court;
hot cement stood there to greet me,
with the self-made men, who asked me what I'd give
to be a cell in the mouth of one of their miserable fuck machines.
In the Neon Clown,
at the top of Neon Clown Avenue,
I catch up with an old friend
from the heart of our hometown;
millions of people stuck in that place,
all stayin' alive just to save face,
see the bar staff, walls, and weirdos,
and grab one last drink for the road.
I can no longer empathize with you;
there's no one who’d empathize with you.
But I'll hold you gently, as you fall
off the edge of Neon Clown Avenue.
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