Static Loud as my Tongue

I fell asleep on our couch at 2:00 the other night, only to be awoken two hours later by David Parker with two tall cans of Monster energy drink and saying that we had to finish our projects for pols 305. After the initial crabbiness from being woken up at four in the morning had worn off, I knuckled down and turned out one of the most satisfying projects of my university career to date. Of course it's for Paul Rowe so it's going to be marked pretty hard, but I'm still satisfied with it. What I'm even more satisfied with is that I got to spend about two hours in the laundry room last weekend (and quite a bit of time this weekend). For sure I was doing my laundry, but primarily I was there to play my guitar and write songs. So I spent about two hours doing that and along with other stuff I wrote the music for one of my songs. I started writing this one when I was on the island. It was inspired by driving up to this castle on a hill and sitting in the car with Miguel, listening to Peter, Bjorn, and John while a few people went to take pictures of it. From there it evolved when I was in the laundry room into something vastly different. I'm just posting the lyrics right now, but maybe I'll post the rest sometime soon. Unfortunately I'm having problems with publishing my posts in the format that I type them in, so there's going to have to be some random periods thrown in to make things work. Enjoy.

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Pipesmokingprofessor

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I am Not Just a Mutant

We curl up the rich folk road

to the crack and pop of a stereophone

the steady rain has stopped

leaving only chill and tree bones

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(Chorus)

I, I live an old fashioned life

living it up in these modern times

I caught your eye

caught you just in time

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The whistler coming down the moor

enshrined in silence to the manor door

a light inside ignites my mind

behind stained black polaroid

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Brick on brick to build a mist

drifting up like a dream of the highlands

listless and ephemeral

Indian isle smokestack pyre

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November light filters through

a darkened lens of swollen sky

the air is wet to the touch

and static loud as my tongue

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