Get all 16 Cold Foundation Collective releases available on Bandcamp and save 85%.
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1. |
Black Tongue Elixir
01:29
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Goddamn... Do I really need this portrait?/ Or do I just need the wall masked?/ To tell myself tonight’s not just another step in the dirge dance/ Judging by these sleepless nights, I can ruin the morning light/ It’s Christ nails, and lawn darts, til the cithara gets the notes right/ That way there will always be a version of me dancing/ Hands up in the air like I held my damn self for ransom/ I was projecting shadows as I lit my cigarettes/ That covered up the path I should have taken with all my fickle steps/ But fuck it, black tongue elixir made me malleable/ Living with an upturned nose like nothingness was valuable/ Favorite colors are small talk, and I can’t get nothing past you/ Spill a million words until this face of mine is half blue/ St. Francis of the planter box, wears his chips like a tattoo/ Grass grows up around his leg each blade a thread of bad news/ A testament, of everything, a channel of peace has to do/ A sabbath of blood, and saturated fat for me to lose/
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2. |
Hellebore
02:29
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The divots in my shoulders act as shelves to house secrets/ ‘Still Life with Boxing Gloves’ or a statue of Nicodemus?/ I should have left my car parked on South Clinton/ As an art installation entitled: ‘Fuck it I Will Walk to Prison/ Friends and their known names and cold apparel/ Tiptoe around the point like liars and their arrows/ As soon as my feet slip against that there Embarcadero/ I’ll peel back my flesh, to reveal I’m just Pierrot/ Saying things the wrong way, never meant to start shit/ I’d trade a million dollars for a thousand dollar tarpit/ A mirror image of the one in my gut/ Spewing all the contents into an image of Black Shuck/ I wore a face like kerosene/ On the day, that your bones, turned to match sticks/ I wore a face like kerosene/ On the day, that your bones, turned to match sticks/ How does my son of man suit fit me?/ It can’t possibly compare to your pretty/ Cutting corners making sawdust of the city/ Find a new one just to wallow in my pity/ Someone saw me sleeping and they didn’t put the knife in/ Someone called my bluff, and coerced me out of silence/ Someone left me with a grin and more than that enlightened/ I wore a face like kerosene your match stick bones ignited/ I’d like to dangle all my options on a string/ And watch them struggle as it turns to the gallows in the spring/ The hall of bitter faces with my thoughts lingering/ I’d rather estimate the chorus long before the lark sings/
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3. |
Telegraph Hill
01:25
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Ear to ear your grin could hug a frail one half to death/ Graze the rim of the glass for every second in the depths/ I’d like to spend my time palms clutched, standing next to you/ Or take a wrecking ball to my frontal bone, to turn it to a vestibule, cause/ I’ve got finished paintings in my head, that/ My hands just aren’t in love with yet, and/ I’ve got nothing that’s, hidden in jest/ In the open like the label from my bottleneck/ An anxiety peel, and the calming effect/ You showed yourself and then exposed your neck/ And there’s never been an ugliness like this love knife/ You gave me words like Harry Angstrom did to Updike/ Soft serve signs look like Virgin Mary statues/ License plate said ‘HEY’, but the face said ‘I’ve had it with you’/ Self absorbed Claudius, bitching about his bad news/ Cause someone, somewhere’s plotting my demise/ I talk like I’ve been here before, I look like I’ve been there and back/ I wear my skin like I’m supposed to, weathered and cracked/ I talk like I’ve been here before, I look like I’ve been there and back/ I wear my skin like I’m supposed to, weathered and cracked/
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4. |
Slocum's Den
03:37
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That persistent sizzle sound...the common thread running through every day/ Mindfulness points to a 13X10 room with a low blue light/ Mariposa meets Lawrence at both the north and the south/ The shape of canned laughter and the audiences mouth/ And I live on Berkeley Lane, a bottle episode life/ Half head, half hilt, the only son of a knife/ And I hope at least I’ll be a worthy sculptor in time/ Without a, carpenters hand to build stairs for the climb/ Lucky that I ever got to float in your mind/ When the Acheron flowed parallel to our drive/ Now I’ll learn to write in braille to prepare for my blindness/ ‘Have you met my son(sun)?’ he’s the catalyst to your dry lips/ ‘Tell me once again why the needle goes in the iris?’/ ‘Sell me to your friends so they’ll connect the dots that I missed’/ And they say that the hurt quells with age/ I’ve found that things get minimal until they’re in a shallow grave/ Hallowed days for all saints, churches turn to set pieces/ Lead toe, let go, and fade into a dead season/ I’ve seen things (that I need not speak of)/ And I’ve started movements (in my head)/ And I’ve been invited (to a Donner party book club)/ And I brought (black and white plus reds (reads)/ Noticing everything, caring for none of it/ Wear a stoics robe enough (who knew you’d fall in love with it?)/ Noticing your little quirks/ Stuffing down my egos glare/ Narcissus’ aiming eye, a meager stare/ I arrive, crooked windsor with a bouquet of blisters/ Fist full of splinters, from a weekend spent bewildered/ Let me meet your maker, I’d like to know who had the nerve/ Peruse your lexicon I’d like to have a word/ Fixated on a bird, irrational on a wire/ Whatever my eyes see fit, snowy ground meets shitty tires/ Young Ichthus is proud, fixes his crown/ To no avail, the hopeless veil, continues to hide the stubbornness/ Is this a dream in a jar for a zealot?/ Or a story that of which the only worth is just to tell it?/ Either way I sell it, a merchant of other people’s moments/ Surgically attach a door onto my hand to keep it open/ That’s no way to tell somebody you care/ Only concerned with outcomes, when out comes the dares/ And though it’s gone, I’ll always think of the stares/ And how I always meet angels round Jefferson Square/ I’ve seen things (that I need not speak of)/ And I’ve started movements (in my head)/ And I’ve been invited (to a Donner party book club)/ And I brought (black and white plus reds (reads)/ Noticing everything, caring for none of it/ Wear a stoics robe enough (who knew you’d fall in love with it?)/ Noticing your little quirks/ Stuffing down my egos glare/ Narcissus’ aiming eye, a meager stare/ Fixation directs the eyes to a fly, circling the most vital words/ In the most beaten to death sentence, of the worst novel of all time/ Curiosity aims itself at a poster hanging above the desk that held the gutter of words/ ‘DID SISYPHUS WEEP?’/
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