Fog and Farewell

by Weston Bookhouse

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Suppose I’ll cash all of my earnings, rest these swollen eyes Clear the foliage atop my car, let dry the insides Write a memoir of the fall, in the Northeast and us all in the pouring rain When the moon refills we will be back on the coast When it’s time to clip these hairs again I’ll hang my hat, my head I told a keeper she’d be seeing me in line some day Tipped my hat to the old shed and I drove away Clipped by a gust of wind in North Dakota That was 40 degrees colder than the heatwave I had packed for But I warmed up to Madison And the girls in Wisconsin looking like I could get used to it Finally to spending hours between the fenders Driving through Pennsylvania in November Pipe dreaming drafts of postcards I would never send her We caught the ferry And watched as god descended over Lake Champlain Exemplifying all I’ve come to place my faith upon Crusaded my new muse Southbound along the Eastern Seaboard.
If all goes to plan I’ll soon grow bored Got an itch and dwindling checking account And in all honesty it’s probably best for me My eyes have never been so sore Well the captain said to power off your phone And I flew over every place I ever called “home” Catalyzing my conclusion that to understand these things I’m getting far from everything in between The folds in these flannel sheets This suburb’s dreams that have awoken me To my functioning bones, three quarters of a tank of gas, Myriad of fears that only surface when I’m wallowing here, And this stay acting as a breath to go back under For there is something I have left behind.
Had it planned right down to a T Labor until I have Stacked up the means to lap the globe And so on Now I work late on Saturdays And that’s what makes me sad today I miss the music we did play Nothing needing sense those days My ghosts just grew so bored Now they’re back for more Along with Sequoias I miss the fog cooking off At around 11, there being no end in The means to which we took the bus up just The promise of descending And every time I’d go outside in that town I’d get so fucking high I’m jealous of Cayugas Palm trees For still bending in the sky It makes me howl Oh.
Boxed up the love she once had for the sport It is gone it is gone I am gone Move to the city where we can find work in a job That will pay for our stay in the city And houses roll over the hills in harmony, I must say It’s quite a charm dosed in fog But the jury is still out on the weight of my familiars Silently saying "come fast" But I am prone to work slow And make note and despite the times In good time I will tell you this is how I’ve proven To make due sovereign of you If you want to come I can wait But you won’t find me there tonight, I’m afraid For I’m known to overstimulate At the sight of a harbor let alone a growing bay And you can quote me to say Come quote on quote waste the day away Because truth be told I’m on the cusp Flirting with the idea that is not how I’ll make it And I want to make it She wants to make it But we’ve yet to grasp it.
Loring 02:48
Picking at the bones of old things As long as I am here, poking at the bear And it’s heaping list full of things shouting Come to terms with me Starting with mundane trips to the gym Before I go to work each day Set aside more time to say I’ve been at a loss for words evoking All the misspoken idioms I’ve displayed in these stories When I just need the guts to say Aside from things that I am ashamed about I read a good book and worked at a restaurant In light of my views of progress I am trying to save nonsense On the implications collars can have So give me three things including travel funding checks, To nullify anxieties riddling my chest, A song that gives you chills behind the wheel of a Toyota, And healthy doses of elbow grease to pay it forward I want to cremate that old hat I want to manifest my dreams and fears and tears in song And I want to see the world as a primary source, a challenge to horizons Silhouetted on the sun But these feats they don’t come easy don’t come cheap And though the doldrums never last I’ve been stuck in this one rut for what seems like doggy years Strike a match and push the envelope It’s why I’m taking blankets and wringing out He took a good look and saw but a dilettante And while I am being honest all I really learned in college Was manipulating the common path And I’ve got demons including needing to be the best Feeding these anxieties and adding to the stress Along with lacking skills to meet the needs of an employer Someone always saying your dreams don’t push you forward.
Bustle and confusion It is these scenes that I have been longing for But institutions I’m on autopilot for Promising allowances for cubicle adornments Wanna dispose of my day dreams That are with the meadow on the grade I hope it stays just the same as I recall These are the telltale signs Of being torn by living life, by living in the times The bottled up anxieties from redefining these words like survive And longing for enlightenment in spite of it, in light of it I’ll tell you I’m not as calm as meets the eye Seeing everything as defined by the limitations of what is in sight Despite the snide prose I’m not condescending not lazy My dreams just are not in congruence with How you would have me dream and I’ll Rest assured knowing I will find myself at peace if not at bay So when I sit up straight piercing holes through my tongue to agree It’s proneness to be kind due to my conditioning Rampant thoughts that fill my mind have led me to believe I’m not cut out for this town, my feet seem to to have lost their ground Because it’s a cold promenade, in stagnant shoes that aren’t a fit And I’ve tried so hard to keep my restless feet inside It's why I’m leaving in the morning when the fog cooks off the bay I awake.


Original cover art by Kate Sando, Andrew Buckley, and Weston Bookhouse.

Weston Bookhouse is:

Russell Park: Guitar, Vocals
Alex Nakagawa: Drums, Vocals


released January 24, 2016

© Invertebrate Records
Recorded at Shanty Town Studio in Santa Cruz, CA
Recorded Mixed & Mastered by Tauvin Pursley and Weston Bookhouse.

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