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1. |
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Operator Taunt No. 3
They say Mr. Crocodile has sharp teeth,
That he’ll belly role you down to the murky deep,
That his blood is black as barbwire that his eyes never blink
That he lives off of frozen souls.
Have you ever seen an elevator crash down it’s shaft?
O’ it’s a kick it’s a real tra la la!
That the sound heard in passing is a momentary scream,
A quick chorus shriek to the mortuary,
Tiny squeaks cradled by sheer velocity all mixed with steels gnash!
Crash! Crash!
So tell me Mrs. Operator . . .
So tell me Mrs. Operator have you ever placed a call
‘tween my Delilah and that Crooked Eyed Man?
And if you have you better just tell me what they said,
You better tell me, tell me,
If you want to keep your head from rolling off
of your torso better tell me pretty please!
Tell me - tell me! I’ll even pay a decent fee!
To know just what ensued ‘twixt the tethered tongues of those two,
If their speech was brittle briars or with honey streams imbued,
Did they speak of my removal,
Horde the final clue
Did they utter of the dwarf albino?
Or whisper of the Jew?
They say Mr. Crocodile has sharp teeth,
That he’ll belly role you down to the murky deep,
That his blood is black as barbwire that his eyes never blink,
That he lives off of frozen souls!
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2. |
Pornstar Shotgun
04:00
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Pornstar Shotgun
Ya look so pretty sucken that ol' shotgun,
The condom on it protectin yer lips from rust,
Ya know yer wanted all the booth boys spurt yer worth,
Jus’ pull the trigger and your legend is self-assured.
But ya look so pretty sucken that ol’ shotgun . . .
When four leaf clovers weren’t jus’ mere mongoloids,
An’ boulders of smolder didn’t hover above yer loins,
The world was magic the universe a disposable toy,
Now aint it tragic what happens when ya get too spoiled.
But ya look so pretty sucken that ol’ shotgun . . .
Ya never thought that ya’d rise just to fall,
When ya started etchin your number in the trucker stalls,
Now the pseudonym burnin out the marquee bulbs
become you
an’ yer rubies an’ kitty’s scratchin habits,
yer dirty movies but previews to yer main detatchment.
Yer hips so clever, merged equators revolve your thighs,
Yer eyes diamonds turned to lead when yer not high,
Ya writhe so sexy, twitchin limbs tearin silky things off,
But yer wanton rippin’s jus’ tanglin yer straps to knots.
But ya still look so pretty sucken that ol’ shotgun . . .
Don’t ya know babe that it aint yer fault,
That yer ass came into focus swishin down the highschool halls,
That it wasn’t yer volition to try to get off,
with yer step-daddy
an’ uncle an’ grubby cousins,
Didn’t take a crystal ball to decipher what was comin.
But ya pout so pretty deep throatin that shotgun,
Battin lashes as if ya don’t give a fuck,
But I see you’re jilted, don’t tell me that ya never heard,
Fame aint only a bitch but it’s also a four letter word.
But ya look so pretty sucken that old shotgun,
Sucken that ol' shotgun . . .
Sucken that ol' shotgun . . .
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3. |
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The Lecher’s Waltz
A stranger promised me ecstasy
for cab fare and a pint,
But my pockets had holes and my coins had flown
so I said “Another time.”
Ever notice how werewolves and wolverines
both sneer before the bite,
But the way they consume the throat and the womb
are as separate as day and night?
A stockbroker sold his portfolio
when chance took a loan from fate,
Just like speech surrendered to morose code
when the the tongue traded it’s tone irate.
And love becomes an afterthought
to a libido on parade,
And the face ‘neath the covers morph into estranged lovers
dissolved in a masquerade.
A fire broke out from a harlots gown
to melt a lecher’s ice,
To assure that the steam would reconvene
and not be distilled in a different vice.
A cripple refused to be laughed at
while claiming Beauty as his muse,
An aristocrat wed the town hunchback
praying her posture wouldn’t improve.
Remember that cloth free holy man
who claimed to fly around?
Was left for dead in a steel cobweb
spun in a forge downtown.
Goddamn.
A generation coveting genocide,
The war torn jealous of a cartoon,
Lemmings surviving their cliff downfall
and not knowing what else to do.
And you know something’s wrong with Miss Barbiturate,
When Hysteria can’t even get laid,
And the Jewel of the Nile sifts through the junk piles
seeking out Mr. Cane.
And love becomes a second thought,
to a cheap thrill on the make,
Like a hungover tongue craves salt and grease
above any taste of grace.
Goddamn.
An’ the stranger who promised me ecstasy,
Didn’t need no drink or a ride,
An’ though my pockets had holes my lechery
Couldn’t brave the brave the lovers tide.
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4. |
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15 Dead Stallions
Fifteen dead stallions on a winters nite,
Spikes in the stables and a serrated knife,
There’s a form that limps on the hiway side
The crooked-eyed man limps into town.
‘Neath the droning crackle of neon lites,
The porno shops an’ poor boy strife,
Where the only sin is incesticide
The crack of a cane starts to resound
a tap tap tap echoes around.
Where fluid’s crusted in the drains,
Where oblivion’s reached within a vein,
Where there’s the scent of that sweet crack-cocaine
there’s heard the offbeat cracks of a lethal cane.
The crooked eye man slashes into town.
There’s not a helluva lot that you can do from drownin.
When yer bound face down on the flooded floor,
Be a big man an’ stop that wretched shouting,
You’ve been a naughty lil’ boy an’ you got what you deserved.
From El Paso is where she came, her parents pockmarked gypsy’s from ancient Spain,
At age thirteen she’d run away from the city,
She always seemed to snare her hair in those neon lites,
As a child they called her Rosalita,
She’d blow kisses to the stars droppin out of the Texas sky.
Ya really couldn’t ask for one much sweeter,
But her papa an her brothers didn’t treat her right.
With a cracked thumbnail from a strangers car door slammin,
With a thrift store purse and blotched mascara lines,
With a smack or two and a couppla months in county,
She surrendered to what the men seemed to adore,
Yes, she traded her mother Mary,
Traded her mother Mary
She traded her mother Mary for the whore.
For the whore . . .
For the whore . . .
For the whore . . .
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5. |
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Cruella DeVille
(drowned in a still)
Cruella DeVille, Cruella DeVille,
If she doesn’t scare you, no wicked thing will,
Her cackle so shrill, she makes the pinball tilt,
Darts glares far sharper than a porcupine’s quill.
And the mirror discloses a form much older
‘cause you’ve spent half yer life peekin ‘round the corner,
Yet ya can’t elude the witch ya run smack into . . .
Cruella DeVille drowned in a still,
But was quickly revived by a cocktail of pills,
Makes vegetables ill, pacifists kill,
The titerope walker take quite a spill.
With a puppy spotted coat strung over bone shoulders,
Pockmarked by botched embers off her cigarette holder,
She heats her ribcage from outside in.
Keep the little brutes for all I care! They’re mongrels! Mongrels!
Cruella, Cruella DeVille . . .
Cruella, Cruella DeVille . . .
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6. |
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Gun Barrel Pupils
Stop yer slobbering you drunkards, clog yer cunt traps you whores,
An’ listen to a story heard before,
But we’ve drunk all the wine an’ yer slurring like swine
so ya might as well here it once more.
On the shores of Inish Mor there stands a lone steeple
casting shade across a ravished churchyard,
Yet when the Sun sets the shadow spire points west
as if seeking escape from the dark.
For straight to the east peering over the deeps
keeping watch atop a cragged crumbling cliff,
Stands the weather wracked shack of my sweet Mary Ann
who I still to this day pine to kiss.
Run for your life my sweet little Mary!
Don’t you look back no matter what you do!
For the hounds of hell are unleashed an’ barking,
The scent sent for none other than you!
Now a terrible man came to pass through that land,
A demonsteed snorted ‘neath his tightly reined fist,
An’ with that devil ‘tween his thighs an’ inferno eyes
he rode dry through the fog an’ the mist.
Straight through the town he rode never stopping,
All he passed recoiled in fright,
But as his beast strode past the commissary store
a patch of hair snagged his hook of delight.
As she walked down the road to the shack we called home,
Perched atop a once shining cliff,
She felt a chill in her bones that she was not alone,
But none she saw through the fog an’ the mist.
Run for your life my sweet little Mary!
Don’t you look back no matter what you do!
For the hounds of hell are unleashed an’ barking,
The scent sent for none other than you!
An’ what shall I say of the things that he done?
Of fingers strewn about, of ripped lips, of burnt hair?
All I know is she’s dead an’ that he is long gone
an’ I’ll take whatever potion or penny you’ll spare.
So hey there lil’ girl with the gun barrel pupils,
Tell me how do you like your vice?
With a pipe or a spike or diluted by ice,
I assure you we’ll have a fine time.
With a pipe or a spike or diluted by ice
I assure you we’ll have a fine time.
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7. |
Dystopian Wonders
05:22
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Dystopian Wonders
If you try to mow over the misused flora of nite,
Don’t be caught slack-jawed when you encounter
Other entities devouring the light.
For there’s gloryholes in the palms of most martyrs,
Dionysus flirts by biting off your tongue,
As for Isis, well, don’t even bother,
Lest you’re craving a curse from an immortal cunt.
But you must best know every creature cast in our immortal show,
(with their wax drenched pouts and purple stitched knees)
Wouldn't harbour such longevity had they not had the foresight to know
that'd they'd never die, that'd they'd shine forever in their prime . . .
Bellona was bashed in a car crash,
Was it her fault or another’s - don't matter at all,
Her donations counts much more than the scrapped steel,
For her testament outlasts her tragic downfall.
Witness Tora, a doll with bones scrapped from roadkill
And patched together with an embryontic spine,
Was it a witches curse that wrought her asunder?
Or a blessing that chopped her down in her prime?
But you must best know any creature cast in our immortal show,
(with their wax drenched pouts and purple stitched knees)
Wouldn't harbour such longevity had they not had the foresight to know
that'd they'd never die, that'd they'd shine forever in their prime . . .
So if you still wanna come over,
If you want to divulge our sacred rite,
You can be a priceless catalyst, a dystopian wonder,
Past analysis and the watchdogs of time...
In the age of the wretched, Beauty is burnt,
But in the cult of Dystopia, Glamour’s assured.
So rise up Tora! Twist your torso Bellona
come and writhe about in the glory of the wax.
Praise the glory of the wax!
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8. |
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Delilah 666
Ya walk around in black gauze an cop misunderstood,
Throw pork at the hippies an’ snort speed in the woods,
Ya scratch yer name in runes on yer preacher’s car hood,
An’ when the cops come to call ya dispell ‘em with a curse.
O Deliah 666 ya know not what ya do!
If bind yerself in lingerie yer gonna weave yerself into a noose!
Ya can sleep all day but ya can’t get rid of the noon,
An’ yer papa don’t understand yer allegiance to the moon,
Yer mama was a beauty but she gave her ass up for you,
So jus’ be discreet when ya leap out the window of yer room.
O Delilah 666 ya know not what ya do!
Don’t ya know so mote it be is just a fancy way of sayin screw you!
The definition of a vixen is a female fox,
A quarrelsome woman or a Frangelica on the rocks,
But babe ya aint a vixen, at best yer jus’ a tease,
Ya best perfect that mascara ‘fore yer bruisin those pale knees!
O Deliah 666 ya know not what ya do!
Can’t ya see them fishnet stockin’s make derelicts like me come
unglued!
Ya got a monster in yer pocket, a Golem in yer purse,
Frankenstein in a negligee chaufferin yer rent hearse,
Dried blood in a locket an’ a fingernail of hash,
Aleister Crowley by yer bedside next to yer dimestore Necromance.
Ya pride yerself a witch with yer rituals at nite,
An’ conjure up the legions with mail ordered candlelites,
But if ya met the Devil don’t ya know what he’d do?
He’d grab that candle bend ya over an’ put it to a better use!
O Delilah 666 don’t let them beasties brew!
When ya run out incantations they gonna turn on you!
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9. |
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Debutante Warnings
Ya better suffocate that hip sway darlin,
Better shove it in yer pocket ‘til yer set free,
It just aint mere evidence that yer flauntin,
It’s the intersection dissectin’ the chaff from the wheat.
Yer quite the pretty peacock snarlin,
Thinkin what ya did can never be traced,
Well all the girls fresh out of county
Are yakkin’ their lips all over the place,
Etchin’ in the factors ya sook to erase.
‘Cause murders like a magic marker baby,
What’s first inscribed don’t always show but it don’t erase,
Just takes a swab of the right solution
to peruse the writ you did not dictate.
The bullet casings, ejected an’ spread all over,
The sulphur stink interlaced with your cheap perfume,
Your menthol cigarette, the filter, ya know I found it,
Crushed ‘neath the counter an shellacked with your lipstick’s bruise.
If ya suck the bottle dry when yer not thirsty,
Yer gonna shake when the tremens start to creep in,
But yer a greedy little creature aint ya baby,
Bet you’d pawn yer next of kin for a lost weekend.
Yer like a spoiled exhibitionist starvin
for what can only be unleashed in abject privacy,
I got an instant one up on you starlin,
‘Cause I can get off with no one watchin me,
In locked scenarios I tend to jangle the key.
So tell me why won’t ya face me, don’t tell me it’s ‘cause yer crazy,
Such charades of bullshit are best kept for your defence,
Come to the window, gaze at me through the plastic,
I can’t even touch you or throw acid through the vent.
Yer like a thirty minute car crash honey,
After fifteen no one cares about your misery,
The jaws of life don’t care about yer body,
Just separatin tissue from spoiled steel,
An executioner won’t mince with yer wide thighed appeals,
Better button yer lip before he makes you squeal,
‘Cause my debutante warnings are the real deal.
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10. |
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Wicked Weather
(prayer version)
Cuchulain was drinkin when he wasn’t ‘sposed to
an’ his horse wandered off into a pasture,
An’ he threw such a big fit when he couldn’t find it
that he guzzled thirty gallons and slovenly slaughtered 96 men.
They found his horse jus’ a pissin in a glen.
Prayers of the Nation, cursed by the country,
Stitchin holes with syringes an’ landtaxing junkies,
Don’t ya pay no mind to that man hind the curtain
there’s worse entities of which you should be worried
an’ that’s for sure,
Don’t pinch yer precious pennies for the dimestore.
But breathe a little curse thrushed prayer for me
to relinquish me of this monstrosity.
Sermons on Thursdays an’ anal Tuesdays,
Sprinklin dust on the freshly acquired loosey,
Ya know I’ve felt so much older since that witch left the corner,
I crack sticks retrievin finger clasps but am stuck with smolderins of sap.
Of sap, that sticky, resinated, black slo crap...
But the monkey believed that he was still clever
even after bein tarred and feathered,
But he laid his pride down-low at an orangatang stripshow
When he discovered the equation that fumes the fury of men.
Jus’ send my best to the wasps an’ bees,
An’ implore them to take mercy on me.
Well I hope there’s still sachrine in the land of milked honey
Trade my million dollar credit for a tub of grubby money,
And if there aint no umbrella to ward off wicked weather
I’m sure we’ll rustle up some cardboard an’ trudge through the mire
self-assured.
Self-assured, it aint always a dirty word.
I was always fallin through,
I was always comin down for you.
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Rasp Thorne Berlin, Germany
Rasp Thorne is a writer, musician and performer based in Berlin.
Current musical
projects: DRUCKS, CHAGRIN, Silk Rut (Berlin)
Previous bands include: Rasp Thorne & the Briars, LaZY SHaRKS (London) Ryder Pales, and SPAR HORNET (NYC)
Along with solo songs he has also recorded poetry extensively.
'Etched in the Ether', a collection of lyrics, is available now through CHAGRIN PRESS
... more
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