Minutes to Manifest Destiny
by Marconi
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Digital Album
Immediate download of 9-track album in your choice of MP3 320, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.Buy Now name your price
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Narrow Gauge
04:11
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All Down Hilel
03:34
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Chaise Longue
03:15
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Title and Deed
01:54
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Another Man's Rhubarb
06:04
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credits
released 11 September 2010
composed, performed, recorded, and mixed by Luke Kirkland
mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music
..........................................................................................
Marconi is Luke Kirkland, James Towlson, Robert Peckham, Chris Hislop, and Michael Hutcherson.
Visit marconiband.com to learn more.
..........................................................................................
composed, performed, recorded, and mixed by Luke Kirkland
mastered by Alan Douches at West West Side Music
..........................................................................................
Marconi is Luke Kirkland, James Towlson, Robert Peckham, Chris Hislop, and Michael Hutcherson.
Visit marconiband.com to learn more.
..........................................................................................
tags
license
all rights reserved
feeds
feeds for discography
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Apr 2011 -
Apr 2011 -
Dec 2010 -
Sep 2010 -
Oct 2009 -
Apr 2008 -
Feb 2007 -
Aug 2006 -
Jul 2006
contact / help
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For all other inquiries, click here.
- Track Name: Grady Calloway's Heart of Gold
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Coast to coast by phone is easier than yards across this bedroom.
Day by day alone is simple. It’s that simple.
Grady’s got a cold heart.
No, that part’s just cold,
Sewn inside it’s own fire,
And baking Grady’s heart of gold.
So don’t take it all so personal-like.
The burning surfaces are caving in,
With both the poles consumed in clockwise spins.
With gulping gasp and grins, we faint from feigning gills and fins.
Is this how it begins?
The newborns nurse as confetti burns
On our favorite cigars, these turgid urns
Fixative enough to say
“Freud would’ve been a proud man, now.”
Grady’s got a cold heart.
No, his heart’s just old,
Bottled up in bell jars
That bolder hearts have broken.
I was just trying to make the last call,
But the hospital guards closed
All the exits around the phone stalls
So I can save on a caving heart of gold. - Track Name: Narrow Gauge
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Pressure, pent up in a pants-down,
Roses-posed-with-rings-around,
Wonder-how-it-pans-out…
Every window in the car’s been rolled down at least once,
Like every beat on every street.
Every train on every track from here and back goes “clack, clack”.
Irish and Chinese lay all their friends in the ground,
Drowned by the sound of the shovel strokes choking all their broke hopes,
Talking up the gold rush, canteens cut with coal dust,
Planting with their plans out.
Every window in the car’s been rolled down at least once,
Like every street by every beat.
Every train on every track from here and back goes “clack, clack”.
We’ll shop when our ship comes in.
We’ll stop when our spit’s spent on something that the cat dragged in.
Other fish in the sea. Please.
We’ll miss when the motion begins.
We’ll kiss when the bottle stops spinning what the spin reeled in.
Other fish in the sea. Please.
Irish and Chinese lay all their tools on the ground,
Crowned by the sound of the small change chains cut off of the train gang,
Race out past the gold rush, fill their packs with gold dust,
Panting with their pans out. - Track Name: All Down Hilel
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These thieves take time to disappear.
Keepsakes sold, I’m hardened of hearing in one ear.
Some break to mistake the Jewry for jewelry, the austere
Pray for the hold sway. It’s all down hilel from here.
Rainbows, “case closed”’s, canopies,
Webelos, bistros, galleries,
Toupees, toothpaste, the caduceus.
Trust me. These wakes feed waste dreams, favorite things.
You tender the waves on down with the weight of it all.
Toucans and triplets: kismet in the cares of the small.
We parade for the papists in town, down a carafe, and crawl:
Chiefs, braves, all, chiefs, braves, all.
Wish lists, Swiss Miss, chimanees,
I-Corps, semaphores, academy.
It’s hog-wash. It’s poppycock. It’s vanity.
Trust me. These wakes feed waste dreams, favorite things. - Track Name: Chaise Longue
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The poison’s meant to maze
The circuitous caves
In fraters' porches poured.
Que sera soror!
This is the part where the ants explode
At last, as fast below the looking glass,
The mass exposed expands and glows,
A rose bereaved and phos released:
Relief!
Isolation:
The oafs offend the Moors.
They’re boorish brats of sorts.
Isolation:
The memes upend the mores.
Hooray! Their camp’s a corpse.
Isolation:
C-c-c-c-coax your own accord.
We’ve lovely hardwood floors for freshly fractured forts
Heads up! Woopeetaw!
Quick on the draw.
"Unique New York" bespeaks a portly alveolar arc.
Heads up! Woopeetaw!
Siss poom pah!
Are our oars oak in this toy boat?
Toy boat! Toy boat! Toy boat!
Heads up! Woopeetaw!
Don’t you understand?
The city never sleeps.
And I’ve got you for keeps.
A ghost garrotes the hand
And boasts among the most fecund
“You’ve just begun to pant”.
Isolation… - Track Name: Framing the Articles of Confederation
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Senators, coax these goat meat
Magistrates past the gates.
Terms and disbursements and servants await.
Please don’t say “No”.
Let them say
“If you’d found me wrapping in cellophane
Lips and limbs loosely intruding on trade croupiers,
I’d not feel so led astray.”
Précis, policy, penalties posed.
Coding the calls they keep telling me:
“The one armed man complains and feigns a faux doe-see-doe.”
Macy’s…Maybe we’ve a registry.
Pulsing, appalled, they keep telling me:
“The one armed man complains and feigns a faux doe-see-doe.”
Seven years hence, here, heads bent
Bursting and biliously baiting,
Effete and a facsimile.
Please don’t take “No”.
Let us pray:
“Is not our poor Sun spitting rays upon
Mainlands and colonies and setting on our halcyon days?”
These Brits don’t change.
They never change!
Paste won’t make grace slow.
Man alive!! I’m terrified!! This science has a pace to prove!!
Send me a postcard, a quickening thought, for tying a wasp in a knot
And I’ll lasso a l’oiseau for you.
For shame that mortal hand sets ayes to build and brace the post-haste
Symme-try as I might my elect is all “cheval/chevaux”.
And golden it seems, these cold calluses grow! - Track Name: Another Man's Rhubarb
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The way to stop’s a moment wrought well away from you.
The topless tank or tease must seem, now, a bit confused.
It’s only a subterfuge, a ruse, an old Shinto lavolt,
A catapult’s occult opt-alt gestalt assault.
The kickback throws me back ten rows.
Okay, okay, okay. I get it now.
The curtain of sand’s a curse.
A space remains: my safe ascetic cowl.
I keep a curve in my hands, a curve.
I’ve run the whole conversation to a single red rut:
“I cut a straight line, sucka, if you want to act up.”
But what’s a vampire sucking on a St. Bernard’s muff,
When I’ve chewed through a Swiss chard guard and now I’m just getting drunk?
I think it’s all in my head:
The stage and steed hypotheses
Keep leading instead,
To violent streaks of chivalry.
This burgeoning rep,
“Your face. My feet. They meet. We’re stompin’,”
Is breaking to set and forget it
In spurts at best, but not that often.
“It’s Cambridge, dear. Don’t waste your ear.”
Okay, okay, okay. I get it now.
The curtain of sand’s a curse.
A space remains: my safe ascetic cowl.
I keep a curve in my hands, a curve.
It’s only something I want, only something I…
Only something I want, only something I don’t need.
Only something I want, only something I…
Only something I want, only something that’s owed me.
And when reminding myself
“Don’t fret and fuss, you make too much,”
Is it so bad for my health
To kvetch and cuss and raise a ruckus?
My veteran excuse begins
“If the glove doesn’t fit, you acquit!” In this system
A celebrant Scrooge is
Concluding “I’ll pitch my tents and ply the pulpits.”
It’s only something I want, only something I…
Only something I want, only something I don’t need.
Only something I want, only something I…
Only something I want, only something that’s owed me. - Track Name: Iphegenia at Transylvania
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I float. This mystery moat
Is pitting my pince-nez against petticoats
And smelling salts.
But I’ll fold.
These ropes won’t hold.
I’m spitting my pits in profiteroles
And getting old.
Cold.
I’m out cold, pacing the poles.
I’m out cold.
Nosy plainclothes dolt.
Slowing down. Letting go.
Heavy rowboats coast and break speed.
Better winds suit sails such as these:
Shining red epithets
Blessed against the wilderness,
Soaked through the slip to the sleeves;
Pink pantyhose rosaries rolled
By pressed panoply wrists to ankles;
The handsome and heavy set
In bosom, breast, and intellect,
Fetched hence for less than the bulls.
Sweet c’est la vie esprit de corps.
French etiquette best to rest sure
Of which enemy mists amaze more:
The porches engorged
Or plain white posts setting down spokes?
Pay rolls,
Down cliffs I’m told.
So I’m setting my spoils on marigolds
And betting bold.
Cold.
I’m out cold, pacing the polls.
I’m out cold.
Nosy plainclothes, pacing shadows,
May be pasting pinholes, hastily, simple, clumsy.
Nosy plainclothes, wasting windows,
May be shaving shingles short of temples.
Clumsy. Clumsy. - Track Name: The Cold War Is an Ice Age
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The argument was always sound:
To turn, beneath your flimsy crown,
The contents of your skull around
And leave your sovereign on the mountain.
It’s freezing at the pert peaks upon us
And flooding where the water’s there beneath.
A boat to free and breathe a bed of fauna
And flora spread around the feet of fauns
And feigning all’s a faint of weighty charge:
That’s a charming way to starve.
When the sea gates rose, how late had you found
That the Pleistocene marine was letting you down?
When the ice gates closed, how deep was the ground
Where the all-terrain moraines were letting you down?
Do the feet hate ice skates breaking them in?
Would the limbs brave sea scapes with floaties and fins?
Will the wind and rain begin to change you now?
How I’m loathe to find you out.
But I’m calling back to state my case aloud,
All crashing light and sound:
I’ve kept a cache of clothes for scenting these hounds
To find and flush you out,
In case there’s any doubt.
Don’t go clearing your throat.
I swear there’s qeulquechose.
Oh quelquechose!
Don’t go. This aspen grove,
Though pale and thin and broke,
Prevails in prose:
If the skies are clear and old and too cold to snow
There’s a way to face the show
And a face in case you don’t.
