Only The Sound Between Us

by Pegasissy

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This is a hit parade about the death of girlhood.

credits

released December 6, 2006

Songs by Russell Melia, except "Renascence" (words by Edna St. Vincent Millay) and "Chanson du Haute Tour" (lyrics by Arthur Rimbaud.)

Sung and performed and recorded by Russell Melia except additional vocals on "Trampoline Song" by Lucas Winiarski, drums on "You may have a shoe...", "Primary Color", and "Peter Parker" by James Herman, and additional guitar on "Penis Breath" by Andrew Barton.
Mastered by Andrew Barton.

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Pegasissy Eugene, Oregon

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Track Name: O, Little Prince
This isn't sexual, it's only beautiful. Your head on my pillow, you ask me to sing you to sleep. These are my hands on your arms as they wrap round my body. My lips to the crown of your head, soft and innocent, sweet.

Oh, little prince, your ambitions unusual, true. All of these fake little tests, they don't matter to you. I feel the same, but I'm tied by obedient tethers. But the world is ours now, we can break all of the rules.

So I'll write you a song that's too quiet to ever perform. A common cute tune meant to hold you and keep your blood warm. It will scratch at my throat like a scarf or a favorite sweater, and the music will fade as we fall back in each other's arms.
Track Name: The Trampoline Song
I spent all day on the trampoline with the tapes my lover taped for me. They're full of ladybugs and big beehives and tunes taped off of old 45's.

This is summer and we're almost there.

Did you remember to watch Morrissey when he appeared on late night TV? "I tuned in, but I couldn't see what's so great about that aging queen." Though he's fat and old, he still sings about me.

In our tuxedos with a champagne buzz, we felt like New York, 1921, watching as the trains clanged by in time with the bird calls in the early morning sky.
Track Name: You May Have A Shoe Instead Of A Head But At Least You Have A Soul
You may have a shoe instead of a head, but at least you have a soul. And with your cured and leathery tongue, you can laugh and talk and sing, whereas with mine, except for crying, I can't do anything, and between my lungs and esophagus, I've got a little hole.

You may need a wire and a loop tool to succeed in pottery. And you may need a letter press to make records like Phil. But if all you wanted in your whole damn life was to see a bird with an ivory bill, then you'd best forget that letter press and climb the tallest tree.

Oh, Julia, my shoe-headed nearly-true love, I must say, dearie me! Just to sit atop the butte again and glare at Autzen's glow, or to drive out to the Blue River Dam just to see the stars like bitch, you don't even know. Just to sit in the Delta Oaks Wonder Wash, that's where I want to be.

And I don't have a lighter, and I don't have a heart. I've just got this hole between my lungs and esophagus, but I'll beat you at darts.
Track Name: O, Joan!
Oh, Joan of Arc, it wasn't fair. You had to cut your sweet brown hair. When you tried to trim it DIY, you swiped the scalp, but didn't cry. You just sheared it off and looked like a guy, but you took it like a martyr.

And I remember that poem of yours about Anton Webern under the stars, and the one about the girl who lost some weight, misplaced it like a china plate. Oh Joan, why did you go and do the same when you lost your temporal body?

Now you're ashes at the stake. I hope they distribute you across some mountain lake. You were the savior of the French, carving their verse on some old park bench with a Sharpie pen. Oh, what a wrench that that awkward laugh you laughed is gone for good. Well, at least you've got your green saint hood. Oh, won't you be my patron saint?
Track Name: Penis Breath
You are exhausted when you finally climb into bed. Small death, you've got penis breath and you smell like teenage boy sweat and you think, maybe you'd be happy if you could get an apartment.

Walking through the halls at school you're a locker flower. It's near May, kids are counting the days. You've been counting hours since the day you first sulked into school in those combat boots exuding girl power.

And oh, how things haven't changed. You're still bent out of shape, just in different ways. And what with shipping off this coming fall, it's such a shame to leave your childhood so unresolved.

Curled up like a garden snail now, you try to write. Brief, frail, and thinly veiled, you're convinced it mostly bites, just like those fairy stories you wrote when you were with Gregg White.

Maintenant le petit prince c'est ton petit ami. Mixed tapes and spinach crepes and that lovely state of reverie. But that reverie alone makes a lonely prairie for you and he.
Track Name: Primary Color
If you're a primary color, then I'm only tertiary, a red-violet or an orange-red. Pre-schoolers can't name me. Elsworth Kelly would never paint with me. So I know you wouldn't want me, wouldn't take me to bed. At least that's what my color wheel said.

If you are fucking Brooklyn, then I am Sauvie Island, just a few peach orchards and some yelping cranes. No falafel stands or hip galleries, just a bike path and some cherry trees. So I know you would never pick my fruit, and if you did, you wouldn't stay. But fresh air still beats garbage any day.
Track Name: Peter Parker
If the air were warmer, I'd lend you my sweatshirt, but I can't get it off because I can't move my shoulders since I fell and bruised and scraped the skin. Let's go behind the music school to the garden where I've never been.

And I'm feeling like Peter Parker before he got his powers. My glasses are busted, books knocked out of my hand. And I'm searching for the best way to impress you, Mary Jane. I can't swing from buildings, so I'll stumble as planned.

These days are warmer than any day should be, but we're out on the highway driving past small towns and evergreens and queen anne's lace, enough to make a new set of white bedroom curtains or a skirt that I could wear to school.

And I'm feeling like Edna Poitillier or Edna St. Vincent Millay. This summer at Grand Isle is burning at both ends. But you're treating me so sweetly that I've forgotten books completely. So won't you tread the garden path, or just bring me a carrot flower so I can stay home and pretend?
Track Name: Only The Sound Between Us
Instead of rusted cars, it's old boats in the yard. Why did they bother to fill in the marshes? And this tiny town will slow down till it stops, but I'll keep on. Cos there's only the sound between us, and the long drive north to Anacortes.

Instead of drug addicts, it's just sleepyheads. By ten or eleven, only cats are out. Then by eight AM they're all up again, but we're not, and in my sleep I'll sing. There is only the sound between us, and Mount Olympus up above us.

Now it's i's with hearts and performance art. Now it's only just a show. And I'll drift away as far as Neah Bay, and you'll say, I wish you'd say, and I'll say, I wish I could stay, and we'll try to stay close until I reach the ocean. There'll be only the sound between us, and the great unknown before us.