Stop Paying Attention

by J. Marinelli

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1.
Remember when I introduced myself ten times to your scene-spawn, your hangers on? Polite and slighted, I waited for my moment, knowing that yours was gone I guess times change, but I will stay the same in that I know the truth about you now Remember when I caught you and your boyfriend laughing behind your pointed hands? Back when you thought you had this town on lockdown -- looks like the joke’s on you I guess times change, but I will stay the same in that I know the truth about you now
2.
Saturn of Clarksburg Devoured her children Outside the Fayetteville Mall Did the endless motorik Interminable muzak Driver her dull appetite up the wall? And the clerks saw naught out of place Except the blood on her face And the pile of bones by the Spaceport Arcade Housecoat clean as a slick Rick Perry smugshot Neighbors agog as they turn to A-3 And they see
3.
A sullen refugee from some great negation Survivor of that which iced his wild elation Bespoke, it broke him down to cogs and splinters But he shook off the cough and scoff 'til winter's end Strode through the spring unfrightened Over oceans and borders to a bright-minded kindness Lightened up to get enlightened Shrugged off the late weight of his county's own blindness Sprayed sheets of anger sweet in friendly stations He sweated bright map-dots in foreign nations And sung it sweet like high-lonesome drunk Replacements Spurred on by glowing coils and the smell of basement joy Touched tarmac a wiser person Untried by those trials our boy is now that much more complete Grim clouds of doubt dispersing Inspired by the spires and the chords and the concrete
4.
Too many slammers Not enough slammers
5.
I wish I was a landmine in the ground Yeah, I wish I was a landmine in the ground A landmine in the ground will fuck you up, pound for pound I wish I was a landmine in the ground I wish I was a battleship on the sea Yeah, I wish I was a battleship on the sea A battleship on the sea could sail away to thee And blast your bones into the rocks and sand There lies the crux of the problem, my friend Unable to trade in my human form Steel’s thicker than skin, and this blood will never keep me warm I wish I was a bomber in the air Yeah, I wish I was a bomber in the air A bomber in the air could fly from here to there I wish I was a bomber in the air
6.
From out of left field The right answer will hit you I wouldn’t shit you Blood here there should be none Prominent ribs under white fur
7.
8.
The lie of living on leisure time Won’t interrupt internal rhyme A monolith of a mother-heartbeat An endless loop of pain and defeat The cost of casting a less linear line Might mean a life without dead time Results are in: the powers to not favor The dignity of our divine labor Month of Mondays Sweetly sleep the week away Awake each Friday at five
9.
Exceptional fates for acceptable faces Age is a number, cool is a binary Acceptable rates for exceptional races Wealth is a ghetto, no less than poverty Sorry, the same rules apply It’s all cut-and-dry No matter who your father knows Bother what your mother owns You better pay up for a job well-done Or you’ll reap what you’ve sown Don’t care what your connections are Vague notions of how you’ll go far With your bland-o band Eight-by-ten Press kit in hand
10.
Kendrick’s ghost will then and now Resonate within my brow Which furrows at the chaos and futility Silver tongues on override Drumbeats from a suicide Rehearse it to the best of your ability Dreamers die in real life And those of us left behind To sing our rhyme Will abandon it in no time So rally ‘round the blowout kit Quick reward, convenient hit No means to reconcile the songs we’ve broken Painless in nostalgia’s coil Slumbering verses in the foil With words left hardly sung and never spoken Survived by Your broken sticks and practice tape Make me an architect of sound To spread my mortar all around And though the structure is unsound We’ll live in skyscrapers of ice Paralyzed by our paradise Dystopian and bored Whatever makes you think you’re happy now, my friend?
11.
Stop paying attention To the tabloids and trials The yellow-page trash The dusty young dash With functionless dials That signify nothing But a waste of our time What a load of old shit We’re better than it Dollar for dime Detox it paradoxically Our best defense is to ignore its ceaseless plea That rough old road gets smoother every ever-loving day And I’ve every intention To stop paying attention Behind the monitor-white smile there lurks a smirk worth hiding Blood-pulse in eager handshake Beckoning Reckoning

credits

released May 15, 2015

Recorded in late 2014 via four-track cassette in Lexington, Kentucky. Mastered by Mark Poole at Zone Eight Studios in Granville, WV. Released on 12" vinyl in May 2015 by Twin Cousins Records of Washington, West Virginia. Currently out of print.

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J. Marinelli Trondheim, Norway

J. Marinelli is a one man band like no other. The sound and fury that emotes from his haunting Appalachian echoed yowl falls somewhere between Guided By Voices, a lost mountain troubadour and a classic 70’s punk outfit from your dreams.
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