Songs Written Around the Campfire in the Belly of a Whale

by The Lido Venice

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I always think like breathing through a pillow I bite the bullet to give my mind a shove Let's hide our pills under our tongues; let's make a great show of swallowing. In Quiet Hours we will lead the catatonics, tease revolutions out from their graves, make them dance 'till the irony is chronic (Lockdown!) in the ballroom, our legs go on for days. Well, don't call me easy; I'm dragging in the dirt like the dog I am. Don't be so proud of your mongrel past: you could be thoroughbred for all they care, you're still a bitch to them. O! Brother when they come for us, rip out my larynx with a fratricidal chorus! We're gonna dig those heels.
Sixty watts watched me examine my breath in a backyard, in the year New England failed to recall that it was March and not May that came a lion and left a lamb and let fog unwind the lace cobweb of life under the 4 AM halogen moon. Melt an embrace over my moccasin moves and dog calls. They were arabesques and soliloquies, respectively, sung legato to the matron seraphim of Lonely lovers with the coldest hands taste low tide on the navy sands, and she and Muse are sisters, mute in adolescent fury and jealousy. She hums just above an engine. Sophomoric aural embargoes weigh heavy cargo on my soul, who cuts when he thinks I'm asleep. But I know better, because I only cry when I mean it. She hums just above an engine, and she leads beneath the sheets.
I have transferred Due to scalpel fights in the O.R. “Doctor, doctor, I keep losing my patients!” Abra-cadaver: we’ve failed him now and we’re bleedin for a flatline, fellas. “Well don’t inoculate ‘till you try it.” All the gashes in their sashes and the dicks in their trenchcoats: “Leave your mops at home!” Hospitalez-vous?
I spit up sky with your pretty machine next to mine. In the presence of the present, we spoke about the past. In the presence of the present, behind our future’s back. Darling, I’m not sure I can. With libel as a bible, it was wholly unsettling: grown from bad seeds sown in spring, sunshine-shy and soaked in sin. She said, “breathe, my sweet, won’t you taste this air with me? All bitterness has sunk into the ground and held your torso silently, like gravity (who always brings the party) but all the other flowers are passed out in the grass, and I know you’re better than that.” Darling, I’m not sure I am. And I don’t have the lungs for your type of talking. A stumble feels just like a run to us. When one of us leaves, it feels just like a blade to us.


Recorded in 2004 at The Shop by Jerry MacDonald. Originally released on ECA Records in a limited edition of 100 CDs.


released January 1, 2004

Mike Bedrosian: drums
Ben Potrykus: vocals, guitar, synth
Sam Potrykus: upright and electric bass, vocals
Matt Sisto: guitar, percussion, synth, accordion
Charlie Zaillian: guitar, percussion


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The Lido Venice Boston, Massachusetts

5 hardcore, punk, and indie kids played folk + post-punk in 2004, sometimes in weird time signatures.

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