Bicycle Days EP

by Jamison Murphy

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03:25
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credits

released 05 August 2014

Written, performed, and produced by Jamison Murphy
Recorded March-August 2014
Cover photography by Aidan Bliss

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Track Name: Bicycle Days
Everybody that I’ve come to know
Struck from the lowlands, exiled up the coast
Intense young supermen left for the Pampas
My friends and I are the only real monsters

But I guess the songs we raised up have dissolved
And the marker-scrawled aphorisms on the wall

They no longer mean a thing

The most blunted on the block, let the good neighbors stare
Around a mud firepit in a backless rocking chair
I’m on loud, ultra-tore-up, with my droogs
And I come home and play my folks for dewy-eyed fools

But damn, it feels good just to be
And the thug life’s the life for me

The porch caves in as we revel in decay
In menthol packs, gum wrappers, crumpled Big K’s
And the nights we spend, we know death’s cousin well
Staring up at the streetlight or darkness itself

O our alcohol-heavy eyelids
Just the fancies of privileged kids
Track Name: Charlie Potatoes
Hey, it’s almost eight, so come sit down
This show is good some nights (if it can come through clear)
I know the heater’s shot and you would rather be
Among the fully living, not in here

I try to drive around most days
I’ve got a tape of Bird and a tape of Coltrane

I can almost see the Vanguard with my eyes closed
Dark and smoking in electrifying sound
But these things numb themselves with time - I know the danger
And the fury fade, the teeth are all pulled out

I’ve seen all of this before, I know
It’s the same bourgeois kids in slightly different clothes

And I saw ‘67 fade, a few left shooting up
In the garden they regained
As all those young revolutionaries
Went to work in advertising, ended up the same

And what use is an aging leftist now
When all the world’s moved on and my hope is fading out

And wonder’s been reborn a thousand times since then
But I’ve not seen this fabled million Trotskyites
And kid, don’t think that all the mystics are debauched
Or smoke the refuse of a system you despise
Track Name: In the District
The foreign blossoms all are blown from the trees
Each aged white column wearing down from being seen
And how absurd, that I feel this much like shit
Here, in a sea of barely-functional kids

Trying to act detached
And roll my eyes with yours
At why we’re even stuck here at all
For half a minute
I picture the whole city empty
Save you and me

Tell stupid jokes late in the hotel lobby
Feel my throat closing, feel the eyes set upon me
Stuck in the levity of my generation
Up in the District, where the light of the station’s

A signal for something
That’s blinking too quickly
For anyone here to make out
But you are unchanging
Through glares of the spotlights
And dense white noise

I abandon any hope, waiting with you
For the blue line train
Beneath some moving street
As crowds lie prostrate at the metro's altar
Struck by a higher love than I can see

I can’t make you abstract or idealised
You’re not a vision; you’re far realer than I

And the things that you say
Are broken up in my dreams
When I’m curled up on two patterned chairs
But when I’m awake
It feels too cliched
To dream much anything
Track Name: Trotsky in Coyoacán
Morning in the light of the small courtyard
In the pacing shadow of the American guards
Falling on the floor with my paper’s strewn
They’re all useless now, waiting for the dark at noon

But I think I’ve known for a long time
I think I’ve known for a long time

I still read the papers but it half kills me
As the Old Guard falls to absurdities
A thousand gray blurs in the Moscow halls
All are waiting for a last hope to kill it all

And I think I’ve known for a long time
I think I’ve known for a long time