1. |
How To Be A Genuine Fake
04:12
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Bitches be blowing up my phone.
They all seemed better whilst on Hydrocodone.
I’m passably handsome. I’m partly awake.
Oh how can I be a genuine fake -
When lover, I'm dead. Lover, I'm dying.
Lover, I'm caterwauling and crying.
Lover, I am faulting my fate.
Lover, I'm bed-bound. Lover, I'm faded.
Lover, I'm sweet when self-medicated.
Lover, I'm too played out to break
Or learn how to be a genuine fake.
My industry failed me - I can’t wait to quit.
But if this is my field, I’ve been buried in it.
I’m angry forever; I throw bread in the lake.
And think: how to be a genuine fake.
Lover, I’m dead. Lover, I’m dying.
Lover, I’m caterwauling and crying.
Lover, I am faulting my fate.
Lover, I’m bed-bound. Lover, I’m faded.
Lover, I'm sweet when self-medicated.
Lover, I'm too played out to break
Or learn how to be a genuine fake.
I wrote a hundred songs for Marianne Faithfull.
Her people were French: I wasn't successful.
I wrote a dozen books. All that came to me
Was a skill to send emails glacially.
Lover, I’m dead. Lover, I’m dying.
Lover, I’m caterwauling and crying.
Lover, I am faulting my fate.
Lover, I’m bed-bound. Lover, I’m faded.
Lover, I'm sweet when self-medicated.
Lover, I'm too played out to break
Or learn how to be a genuine fake.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2014
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2. |
Song of Tessa Kosta
04:36
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I want a museum of my Broadway roles -
With peacock-tail rugs, a red velvet swing:
In every room you’ll hear “Song of the Flame,”
And high entrance fees for whoever goes.
The galleries are elegantly furnished:
There’s leadlight and Tiffany glass;
Guided tours and gilded artifacts
There are Victor Herbert’s vases,
And postcards from Jerome Kern.
Ethel Merman’s ashes in a marble urn.
A dark-haired soprano beauty,
I was considered rightly.
The gods were near in the 1890s.
By the Twenties, they outgrew me.
But there’s mink and marabou from Gershwin -
And one little drink and then I’m alluring.
The galleries are elegantly furnished:
There’s leadlight and Tiffany glass;
Guided tours and gilded artifacts
There are Victor Herbert’s vases,
And postcards from Jerome Kern.
Ethel Merman’s ashes in a marble urn.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2014
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3. |
The Hotwife of Hyde Park
04:22
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The skater-boys in the alley,
I hear them talking about good kush.
And they rent the air emphatically
While upstairs I am flush.
I got one man who is mad at me
And another at my bush.
I’m the Hotwife of Hyde Park, love.
And I feel all skewered and sore.
And it’s much too much too much.
And more and more and more.
Nailed a sheet over my windows
So the neighbors wouldn't see -
Propped up naked on the pillows,
All the things he's doin' to me.
I told my husband every detail,
And he laughed incredulously.
I’m the Hotwife of Hyde Park, love.
I feel all skewered and sore.
And it’s much too much too much.
And more and more and more.
There was red Hungarian wine
And sea-salt caramel chocolates;
A sweaty, burying grind,
My husband there to watch it.
Thought I was the marrying kind.
Now I just think that's thoughtless.
I draw a bath at sundown
And imagine both my men
As I strip off my nightgown
And sink down to my quim.
Not enough water to drown,
But not enough to swim.
I’m the Hotwife of Hyde Park, love.
And I feel all skewered and sore.
And it’s much too much too much.
And more and more and more.
I’m the South Side Hotwife, love,
And I sit back and endure.
Much too much too much
And more and more and more.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2014
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4. |
Tramadol & Chocolate
02:54
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5. |
Lovers with Limits
04:25
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Where we’re going is clear enough,
To lovers with limits.
A not-so-gentle shove
From my lover with limits.
I’m bottoming from the top, babe.
My finer life, I’m leaving it.
I double-check the lock, babe.
And then keep on repeating it.
Where we’re going is clear enough,
To lovers with limits.
A not-so-gentle shove
From my lover with limits.
I gave years of honor
To my lover with limits,
And a bit more than I oughta.
I’m your lover with limits.
I ask myself again and again and again
When I’m feeling most alive:
Why I never date proper men,
Or at least ones who can drive.
Where we’re going is clear enough,
To lovers with limits.
A not-so-gentle shove
From my lover with limits.
We think we notice more
Since we’re lovers with limits.
Yet those we slept with before
Were all lovers with limits.
I lower myself onto him,
My body is tense and artless.
My choice is either toxic men
Or men who are obnoxious.
Where we’re going is clear enough
To lovers with limits:
Another gentle shove
Towards lovers with limits.
But your every kink was understood,
You lover with limits.
Moments lived for, while we could
When we were lovers with limits.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2014
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6. |
Kombucha House
04:15
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There are songs I used to be known for
Now it’s a burst of hubris to hope for.
They all listened in ‘94,
No one listens anymore.
My Kombucha House is there for me
To think about my legacy.
So while I find a new posterity
In my Kombucha House, you’ll find me.
Give me your sugar, sing me your praises
In between times of refractory phases.
If I’m not centered in the rock pantheon,
I will build another one!
My Kombucha House is there for me
To think about my legacy.
So while I find a new posterity
In my Kombucha House, you’ll find me.
If today I am remembered
It’s for my mega-hits and temper.
Tomorrow I’ll be recalled quieter:
A Kombucha House proprietor.
My Kombucha House is there for me
To think about my legacy.
So while I find a new posterity
In my Kombucha House, you’ll find me.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2015
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7. |
The Valley of Sleaze
05:08
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8. |
Margarita's Mood Condoms
04:44
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9. |
773-70-ANGER
04:00
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I look alright naked.
I look even better on paper.
I look best when raging.
So I'll just stay there.
When that Midwest stink
Turns me Murder Inc. -
An evil, dandified gangster
I call: 773-70-ANGER!
If you are hotheaded.
If you get into frequent fights.
Outbursts never dreaded.
Aggressions never slight.
If you pull into Ogilvie
With your IED
To scar, disfigure, or shatter
Call: 773-70-ANGER!
Let me put you wise.
My parting advice:
“Sure, uh huh, of course, whatever”
Call 773-70-ANGER.
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2015
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10. |
The Failure File
04:03
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They may pour poison in your ear.
They may be brandishing a blackjack.
They may de-hair you from top to rear -
Though some people may like that.
Oh, there could be teeth extraction,
Or amateur rhinoplasty.
And splashing your eyes with acid,
Here we call homeopathy.
And over time a penile spine
The men have all developed.
You have thirteen floors left to walk up!
There are thirteen floors to go,
There are thirteen floors to go -
You better walk on slow.
(Slowly, slowly)
Well, it’s like a conga line but more versatile.
So do the Failure File.
Do the Failure File, the dance of disorder:
Take two steps back and kick heads clean off their shoulders;
Then grab your bolder-holder or your erectile;
Then a crippling low dip: and that’s the Failure File!
They may toss you in a bath of sea wasps.
Or dose you high with potassium chloride.
They may curbstomp your fragile voice box,
Or do expensive tailoring with your insides.
Billions of years left to bubble and squeak -
Musicians, authors, actors.
And still one person’s artistic peak,
Is another’s drop of bowel and bladder.
Oh, we all fail from snout to tail.
A bored, blank stare and drugged up,
You have thirteen floors to walk up.
There are thirteen floors to go,
There are thirteen floors to go -
You better walk on slow.
(Slowly, slowly)
Well, it’s like a conga line but deformed and hostile.
So do the Failure File.
Do the Failure File, the dance of disorder:
Take two steps back and kick heads clean off their shoulders;
Then grab your bolder-holder or your erectile;
Then a crippling low dip: and that’s the Failure File!
Do the Failure File, the dance of disorder:
Take two steps back and kick heads clean off their shoulders;
Then grab your bolder-holder or your erectile;
Then a crippling low dip: and that’s the Failure File!
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2015
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11. |
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Overlooking a spirit-filled ravine,
Just you and me and a coywolf.
Self-actualized and charming and clean,
Yet no one would employ us.
Oh, but lover, you’ve unpoisoned my life.
So, won’t you at least say you love me now?
We wear mood rings on our marriage fingers
And say we are married to our moods.
We grind, baby, grind until we shiver -
And send the wrong people our nudes.
Oh but darling, you’ve unpoisoned my life.
So, won’t you at least say you love me now?
It's all pitch dark and jarringly stark
This permanent snubbing of genius.
But as hotly as ever, you love me, remember -
And there are cars to blow up for convenience.
Won’t you at least say you love me now?
Won’t you at least say you love me now?
Anchorhold Music/Girl Ratso ©2014
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David Safran Chicago, Illinois
David Safran is a writer, musician, and producer.. A noted figure in Chicago's music scene, Safran has attracted acclaim for his "boundary-breaking tunes" (WNUR) and dark, provocative lyrics "spike[d]...with humor" (The Chicago Reader).
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