Diamond Igloo Night Rally Initials B.R. Marconi Diamond Igloo on Bandcamp

Walter Sickert

from by Initials B.R.

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‘08. WALTER SICKERT (we have got to be kidding)

If the polls don’t test it, I don’t suppose folks that’s in the
Homes gon’ check it. I don’t suppose rodents in the
Walls gon’ measure the floor to floor pressure when the
Floorboard setter’s a door-to-door lecher. I’m a
Bad cold catcher. Down sherpa gon’
Catch a cold shoulder for lack of a better boa. The
Feathers are fans, better for flames unfettered; the
Fancy temper of rams is mainly leather and lamb and

Tantrum and Centrum powder, ground A to
Zinc and, each half an hour, devoured at
Random. Man, abandon the bran to the
Hands of the man with the mandarin tamarinds. You
Cut your loss if you want to cut your cost. Either
You got or forgot the Osh Kosh B’Gosh. I
Got, but I ain’t got spots to show it off
Except for in the aisles of my local Shaws. I got a

Box of grape Shiraz and gobs of gauze, and I
Picked a pot shot to pop the Raj. It’s solved:
The gall is balls when my plaque’s
Appalled that the small question my resolve. I’ll
Poke into all with an awl and account for the
Counts of assault on the pall of the jarl. I’m
All battery pack, still in the Charles until it’s a
Malted hot spot of molten lava.


You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. I
Erase pages amped like perfect plans and sand
Names in my desk to nan, leave plates with the
Fam, so I can hand plates to the fam, lay
Flame to the tapes with a match and a fan so the
Traces escape from the face of the man…

You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. It ain’t
Safe shaking hands with walking dead: you get
Left with the life you led, lest grace be the
Debt and debt be the fate that you met with—
Doubtful at best—lest text be the testament
Rescued and aged for the youth in the next…

You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn. To
Create ache in hands then break and pant, just to
Aim for the grandest of answers and age for as
Long as the age is a chance and the aegis a
Stamp, and a ham “Can Do” ain’t camp—I’m a
Shot in the dark with a harp and a lamp, the

Candle that chases the cold from the damp, the
Answer advanced in the sands, the sentiment
Etched in the very last breath at the end:
You’ve got to be kidding me, man. Damn.


Yo, if the polls don’t get it, I don’t suppose folks that’s in the
Cold gon’ accept it. I don’t suppose roaches in the
Rooms gon’ let ya forget: it don’t matter a bit.
It don’t matter a bit. It don’t matter a bit.
It won’t wait till it quits, still stings when it
Hits: “This Ripper’s all Sickert as a has-been.”
This Ripper’s all Sickert as a has-been.
And sick to happen upon. Come on.


from Initials B​.​R., released April 4, 2011