A cover of Why?'s These Few Presidents, from their album Alopecia. Lyrics written by Yoni Wolf. Most of the harmony stuff in this recording was figured out by Xavier, who is also playing the ukulele. I'm not sure why my name comes first on the title card. Recorded awhile ago in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn.


at your house the smell of our still living human bodies and oven gas
you pray to nothing out loud
two first names and an ampersand
embroidered proudly on a kitchen towel
you're a beautiful and violent work
with a skinny neck of a chinese bird
in a fading ancient painting
and if you're in heaven waiting
you made it there fighting
the tightest kite string
in a bad storm with lightning

and now these few presidents
frowning in my pocket
can persuade no god
to let me let you talk, oh
these few presidents
frowning in my pocket
can persuade no god
to let me let you off

even though i haven't seen you in years
yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere

i thought i had a pebble in my sock
i pulled it off and shook out a wasp
it stumbled out lost, and without a pause
unstung as i was, still i stomped it
i thought, there is no paved street worthy
of your perfect scandanavian feet
my crooked chinese fingers groped
the machinery of your throat

and now these few presidents
frowning in my pocket
can persuade no god
to let me let you talk, oh
these few presidents
drowning in my pocket
can persuade no god
to let me let you off

even though i haven't seen you in years
yours is a funeral i'd fly to from anywhere

These Few Presidents

Lyrics by Yoni Wolf (of Why?) and music originally written by Joanna Newsom, performed by Sszreter (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Wg0H1oRSOU)

Each of these old light leaves is dirt,
barely held together by
tiny bone hands that used to be alive

Holding hands
loose gripped
at the deja vu dream scene end
of a lifelong relationship

These light leaves
is my hair on the bathroom floor,
my smaller selves down the sewer somewhere,
under berkeley, cincinatti, or on tour
Airplane rear
and hotel lobby ladies rooms: beware,
as these light leaves bagged up in plastic,
never to decompose or fertilize

When my balls are finally big enough to do it
I don't want no casket, no saddle,
no seethrough plastic mask,
no casket, no saddle,
no seethrough plastic mask

And when I finally do it
I wanna do the dirt
like the dead leaves do
and if you do leave the earth
when the earth leaves you

cold and hard as a marble table top
with nothing on top,
there's no hip-hip-hop-hooray
keeping Heaven's golden-barbed gateway,
no bright confetti, high-step march, ticker tape parade
There's no mound of clouds to lounge on,
no mound of clouds to lounge on



Light Leaves (Peach Plum Pear)

you walk the streets 
you saw in a dream, 
you saw the way 
but not exactly 
where it’s going to lead, 
but, you got 
the blood inside of your skin, 
you’ve got the blood like it’s a secret 
and you keep it 
within 
you keep it.
the city speaks in its own way 
and sleepers hear it, hear it 
calling to them, calling 
as would any noble spirt 
 
it says you’re lucky just to be here
this place is older than you know
it’s says you’re lucky just to 
walk these ancient stones
but maybe it’s time to go

you just hit the road
and you’re well on your way
wish the best for the rest
that you left on that day
and you’re gone
and you’re
on your way
and you	
touch your hand to the heart 
you were given 
through skin 
that the rest of your whole body lives in
but not you not the part that loves
you exist as
something greater than blood 

And these stars are barely held in the night
and when they fall they fall for good 
the darkness there to abide
but you’ve got the light
inside of yourself 
it’s in the memory of a match 
inside the membrane of a cell inside you
so count your teeth until you finally fall asleep
and you remember why you wept
when you awoke from your last dream
  
it’s cuz you’re lucky just to be here
this place is older than before
you know you’re lucky to have crossed
these ancient shores
yeah you’re lucky, but you want more

so you still hit the road 
and you’re back on your way
wish the best for the fish 
that you left in that bay
and you’re gone
and you’re on your way and you
light the wick of a lantern to see
some bodies will burn 
and some bodies will bleed
but not yours you defy the end
you persist and
something greater ascends 

And these stars are barely held in the night
and when they fall they fall for good 
the darkness there to abide
but you’ve got the light
inside of yourself 
it’s in the memory of a match 
inside the membrane of a cell inside you
so count your teeth until you finally fall asleep
and you remember why you wept
when you awoke from your last dream

Word noises written and recorded by Aladdin Collar, musical sounds written and recorded by Jason Krause. 

Persistent Vision

Instrumental track is "Cut Wrists," by Cex. 

Cute Wrists

sewing stories in that park with a thread that i found
and an empty junkie’s needle there beside it on the ground
keeping track of the marks that i make on the page  
connecting dots on dots on dots 
and there’s a dachshund
what’s its name? 

there was a girl i knew before you who
had a tendency towards dependancy 
on my willingness to try 
to pluck the gnats from her eyes
and i told her it would help if she cried
she did and i picked at the insects inside
that’s a thread of the web i’m spinning out of lies

i stitch a little tighter as i inch along but
i bleed a little a lot of times as i sew wrong
(probably got hep c)
and i really wanna play with that dog

(emmanationism is the soul’s descent
the result of primordial agnosis and shit)           

i no longer dance along with the revenant
dead is the end you’re gone you don’t come again
the vicious timbre of your song still echoes in my head

i hummed in rhythm to the needle and i wondered what you’d think, if you’d seen it
your name impressed 
my wrist 
indelible ink it’s bleeding

it’s just a side note
inscribed now inside to remind me
not to forget you
not to pretend to  
remember why 
the moon still shines 

sophia was the mother of the demiurge and she didn’t want to keep him
she hid her shame away on a cloud wrapped throne, 
beholding no others that bastard he grew up alone
and in that fog he was almost a god but his works’ fatal flaw was spiritual
he knew not the body from which he had culled his materials

and wasn’t it somebody’s job to remember to free the pieces
of sophia from the burden of earth to which her soul is bound
the captured aspects of her pleroma that keep our feet on the ground
when the rapture collapses the fabric of all those entrapments the blast will be loud

there’s too much blood
too much blood in your palms
and the way that it runs down 
through your fingers is all wrong (all wrong)*

i hummed in rhythm to the needle and i wondered what you’d think, if you’d seen it
your name impressed 
my wrist 
indelible ink it’s bleeding
it’s just a side note
inscribed now inside to remind me
not to forget you
not to pretend to  
remember why 
the moon still shines 

*this chorus is taken from the original song

Cute Wrists

I did another cover of a song over a cover of a song— thanks again to sszreter for her harp playing skillz, which I have taken without her consent (but she was really nice about it the last time I did this). Her original: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXNI7iI-O9M

Picture to Burn - Taylor Swift vs The Sprout and the Bean - Joanna Newsom

To state the obvious,
I didn’t get my perfect fantasy
I realize you love yourself more than you could ever love me
So go and tell your friends that I’m obsessive and crazy
That’s fine! 
I’ll tell mine
You’re gay
and by the way

I hate that
Stupid old pickup truck
You never let me drive
You’re a redneck heartbreak
Who’s really bad at lying
So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
As far as I’m concerned you’re
Just another picture to burn

There’s no time for tears,
I’m just sitting here
Planning my revenge
There’s nothing stopping me
From going out with all of your best friends
And if you come around saying sorry to me
My daddy’s gonna show you how sorry you’ll be

‘Cause I hate that
Stupid old pickup truck
You never let me drive
You’re a redneck heartbreak
Who’s really bad at lying
So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
As far as I’m concerned you’re
Just another picture to burn

If you’re missing me,
You’d better keep it to yourself
‘Cause coming back around here
Would be bad for your health

So watch me strike a match
On all my wasted time
In case you haven’t heard

I really really hate that

Burn, burn, burn, baby, burn
Just another picture to burn
Baby, burn

Picture to Burn, Bean to Sprout

Collaboration with Nick Hope, who built the instrumental track from a Fleetwood Mac song but I, uh, I'm not sure which one. 

You haven't had a nosebleed 
since you were a kid,
but you remember
how helpless you felt
when you did. 
Now this isn't that exactly
but it sparks the same reaction
oh it doesn't hurt
it doesn't hurt
but every second 
it gets worse

Can you feel the
pressure in your lobes as they grow
that's the accumulated weight
of everything you've come to know;
and that gravel on the road of where
you'll travel next
those stones are yours alone to kick
a destiny in rocks and grit

meanwhile every step you take
reduces the rest of your journey's length
meanwhile every step you take
reduces the number of steps you can make. 

He comes to the ledge of the steppes,
foam spit on the edge of his lips,
and three specific feelings collapsing
like overblown synapses as his last
footstep comes crashing not flat but
impacting the tread of his shoes
in the dust on    the rocks. 
There is brilliance both in the 
cycle of life, however fragile,
and the   unrelated course of the universe,
as it unfolds, expands, unwraps 
and finally snaps back like plastic,
and starts all over again.

meanwhile every step you take
reduces the rest of your journey's length
meanwhile every step you take
reduces the number of steps you can make.

Consequence Rekindled

I rewrote the melody (mostly not totally) to 'The Water You Walk' by Why? in order for it to work with Joanna Newsom's 'Inflammatory Writ' as performed by sszreter here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=phRp86kaI8o

Lyrics (written by Yoni Wolf):


Oh what an honored man am I
That these eyes might see you tonight
Oh what a modern man I am 
Counting the fears in one hair pore of skin


Farrah, Farrah, I don't dare to stare at you I'll lose my sight 
And tear my hair out like some fazed jew gazed at the face of god

Farrah Marie, what is this? 
Have a very merry Christmas
And bury me deep in this mess
Ill be under where you walk

I'm just like everybody else is 
and everybody else is a fine dust,
Dead in our houses,
until someone dares us to rise up 


Oh Farrah. Farrah, Farrah spare a heat for me, beneath this night
I'm barely there ,but where you are, Farrah, my heart beats right


Farrah Marie what is this? 
Have a very merry Christmas
and bury me deep in this mess
Ill be under where you walk


Yeah, I'm under the water you walk

The Water you Writ

Collaboration with Jason Krause, who gave me this instrumental track months ago. 

Dying Song for Snake
You open your eyes
like the wind isn't blowing
because the tears don't come
when the sun's not showing
and the water doesn't run
from the well
since the river dried up

rise up little ghost
like a star that shines in the night
rise up little ghost
and walk into the light

do you feel something better 
in the dark 
would you sever all your tethers
for a letter of marque
from the high lord

would it fill your empty 
fluttering rags with pride? 
would a mission from god 
help you to feel divine?
would a whisper at all
help you to feel alive?
if you don't then you don't
but I do
and i wanted to share that with you
that I might help to make you
maybe feel better too

The woods by mooncast tree shadow 
are not barren or stagnant but 
wracked with action; 
owl, the killer, 
fox on prowl and 
moth in flight, 
willing to die, 
just to be near the light. 

And I, of cloth, and flesh 
am prone to the calling of death; 
by intention, or infection, 
or as means of redemption, 
but only on my own 
(but only on my own)

Dying song for snake

beat from "Everest" by Ratatat

I want to curb my fetish for chemical burns
and monoxide rockslides, paper umbrellas and tequila worms
and the hand of death is a monkey paw, a left one,
cut from the wrist of a capuchin, a deft one,
glitter and bitters in the tears: a girl in her best glum,
doesn't cut herself up for once she's just flustered
and holds it together on the walk home
she holds her heart open for hope     
she's not broken
she knows she'll  feel better if she shops some
a new dress; arresting; reversal

i want to rehearse curbing my fetish for chemical burns
to not confuse my needs which that for which I yearn
to stick to tooth-picking quick after corn on the cob
to consider what I witness but reserve a sense of god
to quit licking back when I'm licked on the mouth by dogs
I know that can come across at times as odd

I need to dismiss frivolous kisses on the lips, 
instead to know what I want and do my best to get it
and yet not to covet what I love like 
a black hole consuming a star in the glory of the great above
 
I wanna practice rehearsing curbing my burning the
the devil his due, a sigil of solvency
he'll either decide or he won't what to do with me
I'm counting my earnings and wishing for things
between bullshit I want and bullshit I need
and getting to places on time, that needs practice
and not getting lost reading maps, that gets bad quick 
and not getting lost watching hours of static
remaining steadfast when you're being dramatic
it's kill or be killed by each minute that passes  
 
I wanna act like I'm practicing
to be a better me,
or at least pretend to be, 
even if sometimes I still burn
laundry detergent don't even hurt
rub the powder on your skin for a day
it goes numb as the nerves shrivel up
under that which is falling away 

Washing Powder

Karaoke instrumentals for Chance the Rapper's "Sunday Candy" with the lyrics and song structure of Cyn's "Holy Roller." 

Recomposition and vocals by Aladdin Collar.

Aladdin Collar

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