Tuesday, November 2, 2010

2) Barakas

I'm 'onna drive my van
through the plateglass window
Of your heart

I'm 'onna drive my van
through the styrofoam-brick wall
Also of your heart

I'm 'onna wrap my chains
'Round the muscles and veins
Once again, of your heart

I'm 'onna put my fist
Through the side of the cranium
Of the side of your cranium

Don't settle fo' less than
B.A. Barakas

Who is this apparition
With the feathers and chains?
Who bullies the dull life
And rapes the mundane?
Who's the subject of this white boy's modest refrains
Between a micro-tape recording and
"Look, Ma, No Brainz!"?

Is just an
Educated guess

Guilty of vehicular assault they
Threw him in jail
Not even eighty pounds of necklace could
Cover the bail
So they sentenced him from
Now till the World's end
to convert to Islam
and be someone's girlfriend
But B.A. became the best Daddy on his cellblock
A black Adonis
Bringin' the shellshock
All the boys from cellblocks A through Z
Would let Barakas drive 'em like he drove that GMC
And all the thugs and the theives and
Even the Fonze
Were all putty in his mitts
And sheaths on his schwanz
Even the three-hundred-pound guys
The Meanest-Around-Guys
Confessed he was the best man at
Rammin' the round-eye
And if you listen real close, 'round a-quarter-tuh-Two
You'll hear the heavy-breathin', sugar-mouthed
White women coo,

Oh, Fuck Yes!"

The Children cheer
The Neighbors jeer
The Sugar-Mouthed White Women
Ice their Rears 'n'
The Mothers Sneer
The White Man's Fear settin'
Civil Rights back another
Fifteen Years, 'n' they blame

Hulk Hogan scares us far less than

Look who's here to save your farm with
a watermelon on each arm and uh
B-A-N-J-O, it's

He'll defy your histrionics
And occasionally phonics, but
He's a Social Tonic rising
Up from the FRAKAS

He'll make that
Look like a gay librarian he's

©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski

Also appears on the album Johnny Got His Axe [RPM Challenge 2007]


3) Lonesome Electric Robert Pete Williams [Single Edit]

I'm high-voltage, babe,
Ah glow inna dark, I'm a
Conflagration at the slightest spark, 'n' I'm
Lonesome like nobody should be,
Throw that toaster inna tub, Mama,
Set me free...

Ahhh'm from th' Bayou
Of outer space, I'm an
Alligator with a
Pretty Face, I'm a
Ninety-million volt, high-amperage
Infiltrator of the human race.
Well, mah teeth 'n' gums start tuh
Glow 'n' hummm, ah crack uh
Gap-toothed smile while mah
Strings go numb, 'said the
Whole uh m' parts ain't but a
Part uh my sum,
I'll put a charge in yer spark-plug with uh
Flick uh m' tongue,


Sweeeet, sweet static, mama,
Hissin' in y' ear, like a
Holophonic whisper...
Mah kiss is the sermon inna church uh m'body, 'n' my
Guitar is my vespers.
So, take my hand fer now, little girl, 'n'
Take the rest uh me, if you dare,
'Said I'm uh Mega-watt Buddhist, I gut Ohmmmmm's tuh spare...


©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski

This title also appears, in its original form, on Johnny Got His Axe [RPM Challenge, 2007]



Little woman, lemme bend yer ear fer three minutes,
Fer some standard rock fare.
See, I got me a preference,
Y'know the one I'm referencin'; you're
Fidgetin' and twirlin' yer hair.
Y'know the quickest way to the heart uvva man,
It ain't through his stomach, it's his prostate gland...

...She produced a tube, from which she extracted,
A dollop of gelatinous liquid
On the tip of a dainty,
Manicured finger...

There must be some tactful way
To broach such a sensitive subject, but
I guess, in a pinch, this way
Will do.
'See, I like songs that ain't too long,
And not a message, just a vague suggestion,
'n' I'm hopin' you like your suggestions that way too.

Bring me
A floin to clip, we'll read the...
Ching I
I'll be the stud of yer stamen, I'm uh...
King Bee
but never mind my stinger,
Set me off with uh touch of yer little finger, nah

Set me off...

[guitar solo]

I like songs that ain't too long, 'n' not a
Message, just a vague suggestion, and I'm
Hopin' you like your suggestions that way, too.
'Cuz there ain't no tactful way to
Broach such a nefarious subject as the
Dollop oozing from that acrid tube.

Researchers found, in the ruins of Rome,
a wretched volume
[¡Incorrigible tome!],
with one dog-eared page that drove it all home...

[¡That page!]

©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski

This title originally appeared on American Toreador [2007]

[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/american-toreador ].

5) Crawling On My Belly

Some people are pleasant, some people are cool, but they're
More the exception
Than they are the rule.
¿What could you expect from these kinds of conditions,
With folks all pushed together
In all kinds of positions?
Half the races of the world,
Tossed into one pot;
You lift up the cover
And what have you got?
One twisted, confused,
Unimaginative lot,
With cataract souls, and
Heads full of snot,

¡Rush to the middle,
Rush to the middle,
Rush to the middle,
They say!
Racial acquittal; betray and belittle...

...C'mere, gimme a whiff of your
Saccharine aroma,
Gimme just a nibble of that
Acrid Diploma, or a
Love between
Catatonia and Coma;
Final stage of

Lift off yer face,
Lift off yer face,
Lift off yer face
Every day.
Just hope you never find
You won't change what's behind it,
No matter how much you
Cinch, Suture or Pay

"¡This RIDICULOUS nose, no,
This ain't where it goes!
¿What could that GOD have been THINKING
With the shapes that HE chose?"

¡Lift off yer face!
¡Lift off yer face!
¡Lift off yer face 'n' put it
Any old place, now,

¡I'm Mr. Out-of-Place-Man in
Prosthetic Face Land,
Crawling on my belly through the
Cultural Wasteland;
The half-devoured, high-powered
Fascist Graceland is
Ours for the taking by the
End of the day!

I'm Mr. Out-of-Place-Man in the
Human Race, 'n' I'm
Crawling on my belly, tryin' to
Keep with the pace;
Just so many distractions and
So little space, but
It Is What Is, and all the rest is just waste...

¡We're gonna blitz, full-glitz, up the
Ass o' the beast,
Don't give a good-god-damn
What they tell me, I'll tell ya, mama;
Balls-deep up the ass o' the beast, I got
Two sixes on my head 'n' a third one on my guitar when we
Blitz, full glitz, up the
Ass o' the beast,
Don't give a good-god-damn if we're
Less than svelte,
We bring the noise and the gamble
Outright from the preamble,
Not particularly sorry if your
Stereo melts!

©2008, 2010 Andy Klosenski

This title originally appeared on ¡The Jugband Cannibala Court a Bride! [RPM Challenge 2008; soon to be re-released as ¡The Jugband Cannibala Take a Bride!. More on that later...]

[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/the-jugband-cannibala-take-a-bride ]

6) I Got Aces

Seamstress for the band,
New girl in town:
Tailor-made woman, ain't no

I got aces!

Everybody's foldin', every hand that I play,
Corners of my mouth must uh
Gave me away, I said,

I got aces!

Closer to the vest with
Every hand that I play,
Thumpin' uh my cards must uh
Gave me away...

©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski

Title also appears on American Toreador [2007].

[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/american-toreador ]

7) I'm Your Nasty Shadow

You're at the end of your rope, without even enough left to
Tie yourself a noose,
Try as you may, though at the end of your day,
You're still wondering, "¿What's the use?"
You know you're still young yet,
You're contract aint signed, but
Reason aint easin' your
Worryin' mind,
So stare hard into the mirror,
In here you will find,
That I'm never skulking
All that far behind, for

I'm your nasty shadow,
I'm the hand that moves your hand in
Malignant* intent, I'm the
Flint to your spark, uh
Flash in the dark, your
Casual conversations always
Stop where I start, I'm the
Edge on your knife, I'm the
Stained side uh life, 'said
I'm your nasty shadow.

I'm the point where your love-glance
Turns into a leer, your
Laugh to uh cackle, your
Smile to a sneer, I'm the
Filigree choir to your
Unheard cries, I'm the
Thing that you love about
The things you despise, so
Just take that step forward, 'n' let
Me be your eyes, for

I'm your nasty shadow.

©2008, 2010 Andy Klosenski

This title also appears on ¡The Jugband Cannibala Take a Bride! [2008; re-release, with extra material, still pending]

[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/the-jugband-cannibala-take-a-bride ]

8) Kill, Murder 'n' Mame

My mama, she wasn't a bad woman,
My mama, she wasn't a mean woman,
My mama, she wasn't an evil woman, just
Intolerant of the forces of nature
That put one foot in front of the other 'fore we're
Ready tuh move.

Spent all uh her time pressed for time, just
Lickin' her wounds, 'n' tryin' tuh
Ease her mind, 'n'
It ain't bad, 'n'
It ain't mean, but a little
Evil in the way that she'd
Relinquish her hand to it,
Now, my ears are ringin',
I'm seein' stars, 'n'
She wanna run away...

She gets a mean ol' rush, 'n' the
Paint start in tuh peelin',
At the top of her lungs 'n'
Starin' at the cielin', screamin,
"¡Kill, Murder 'n' Mame!"

¿Now, do ya love me?
¿Do ya hate me?
Here I am, the way ya
Made me,
All sideways and nasty, like a
Rash of slide-fire; like a
Blind dog with rabies,
Like a live, broken wire, 'n' I wanna,

Kill, Murder 'n' Mame

Now Jimmy had a steady girl, but
That wasn't enough, 'cuz that
Jimmy was a charmer, oh, 'n'
He thought he was tough.
He scattered all his belly-warmers
All over town, while his
Steady laid awake at night 'n'
Cried the ceiling down.
She was tired uh bein' sweet on him,
Tired uh bein' tame, she got
Tired uh bein' another pulse,
Another bitch, another dame.
A piece of paper in his pocket held
A much familiar name, with a
Much familiar number, her
Best friend's was the same.

There's only one picture she can
Put in that frame,
So who are you to stop her, 'n'
Who is she tuh blame, if she wanna

Kill, Murder 'n' Mame

Nah, you better run, Jimmy, 'n'
You better heed,
'Cuz yer gonna weep, Jimmy, ah,
You're gonna bleed.

She pawned yer Telecaster 'n' yer
Smith-Corona, too;
She bought herself a gun, 'n' now she's
Gunnin' after you.
She called off work three weeks ago, she's
Nowhere to be found,
'N' ya know Hell hath no fury than a
Woman dogged around.

Meanwhile, as you
Sweat 'n' moan
Inside some
Teenage Megaphone, she's screamin'

Kill, Murder 'n' Mame

¿What could he have done?
¿Oh, what could he have said
To leave him clingin' tuh life in
Another woman's bed?
His Steady's got an alibi, or
So she said, and
Jimmy's got a .44 caliber
Hole in his head.

¿What could he have done?
¿What could poor Jimmy have said
To leave his lifeless body in
My woman's bed?
Now, I'm on the run,
'N' Poor Jimmy's dead,
They matched the caliber of my guitar
To the hole in his head.

©2008, 2010 Andy Klosenski

Title originally appeared on ¡The Jugband Cannibala Court a Bride! [RPM Challenge 2008; eventually to be re-released as ¡The Jugband Cannibala TAKE a Bride! with added material].

[ http://honkygabacho.bandcamp.com/album/the-jugband-cannibala-take-a-bride ]

9) Boca Sovacos

¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Bringing his voodoo to a theater near you
Is he.

Boca Sovacos unlocks his zippered teeth,
Releasing a plume of
Hot Garbage 'n'
Bossa Nova.

Harps of slaver escape from his lips
His dreams start but stammer,
His rhythm, it slips,
The bandstand, she's a lonely place for old

¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways time and space is poor
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Pied piper for an old, amphibious race is he!

His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Through cataracts and matted hair
Had looked upon the tangle there
Of Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains.
It was a Makeshift-Sort-Of
Percussion set on which he'd keep
A pulse for all mere mortals to disdain.

His eyes, a blank-but-obstinate stare
Still fixed upon some point somewhere
Beyond pedestrian affairs
And the All-To-Real Mundane,
For he saw, through the din and dross,
A way to get his point across,
Though what it was, he must've lost
In the tangle of his brain.

¡The beat, oh, it festers!
¡The tune, how it spoils!
Despite all he's weathered and how he still toils
No beast still attatched to its thin mortal coil
Could follow his refrain.
So with a club-foot, hunch-back shuffle he makes
His awkward, inefficient way
Behind the geometric fray
Of abovesaid Bottles, Cans 'n' Chains
And aforementioned
Tangled Brains.

¡Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos!
There but for the Grace of God and Science goes
Boca Sovacos, Boca Sovacos,
Drummer from a sideways Time and Space
And of an undead, Subterranean race
Boca Sovacos
Adjusting his sock-o's
Warming-up for "the Seventh" in
Purgatory's bullpen is
¡Boca Sovacos:
BOKOR of Rock-os!
On a Crusade to raise a band of the Undead
Goes he.

He give a
On the drumheads,
He got a
Book of Spells he can't
Pronounce too well,
He give uh...
¡Tighten those drumheads, ay!
He got some periodontal castanets uh-spittin'
Polyrhythmic epithets...

...He got a
HEIL TALKBOX in his gills

"¿You wanna be a
"You gotta practice
"¿You wanna, uh,
"Costs fifty pesos a head."
Put uh fiddle or a horn in each
Worm-riddled hand, said
"¡Ay, Senor Sovacos, you got yerself uh band",
Then give uh...

He got eyes like two plastic bags of fat,
'N' uh liver like uh slab of I-RON,
He got the swagger of a young Lon Cheney Sr.
'N' uh frilly shirt fit for Byron.
He wake the dead with a cowbell clamor,
'N' he move 'em with uh
Bone Marimba.
They shiver 'n' they shake to the
Racket he make, though they still aint
Exactly limbah,
oh, the man is

¡Boca Sovacos: Undercover Mariach-o!
Slipping in and out of rhythm and tune undetected goes
Boca Sovacos
With his Zombie Muchachos
Making music like panda bears
Falling down flights of stairs
Boca Sovacos
Eating human-skull tacos
'N' thumbing his nose at KURU infection, oh,
"¡Boca Sovacos, take
Bruce Villanche for the block-o!"

There but for the Grace of God and Science,
There but for the Curse of Bela Lugosi,
On the drunken tightrope of

©2007, 2010 Andy Klosenski

This title also appears on American Toreador [2007].