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a nova anatomia In which carson metzger performs the following songs: I. monsters! (my origin song) II. (the potato song) we goin’ go hungry III. what shall we use to fill their empty stomachs? IV. snuff film V. the most stellar cartographer (mapping the labored space of regret) VI. the mortician’s daughter VII. my sweet irene VIII. a writerly device or the small problem of gods and bodies IX. this darkest hour X. our lady of the scab (the burning embers of centralia) XI. know thy gnome mage (a new anatomy of cyber bigotry) XII. quality XIII. buttering toast

carson metzger presents:

a nova anatomia the small problem of

gods &

bodies

songs, cd, and book ©2008 carson metzger/ permanent records/morbid leg of fate productions

or


Carson Metzger A

Presents:

Nova Anatomia

the small problem

or

of

part i

gods & Bodies

I. Monsters! (My Origin Song) II. (The Potato Song) We Goin’ Go Hungry III. What Shall We Use To Fill Their Empty Stomachs? IV. Snuff Film V. The Most Stellar Cartographer (On Mappng the Labored Space of Regret) Vi. The Mortician’s Daughter VII. My Sweet Irene

Interlude: VIII. A writerly device or The small problem of gods & bodies

part ii IX. This darkest hour X. Our lady of the scab (the burning embers of centralia) XI. Know thy gnome mage (a new anatomy of cyber bigotry) XII. Quality XiiI. Buttering toast


part i I. Monsters! (My origin song) All my real good friends are monsters the kind that wasn’t never bohowo-howo-ho-orn. And all my enemies claim innocence diggin’ for some soily ooh-ow-oh-ow origins We plant our daisies pixellated Ain’t got no Eden to restore Thank God I never was born! I got no origin song, I’m just-a courting the now until I’m gone All my real good chums quit true love: “It’s so analogue,” they say hay-yay-hay-yay-hay-yay. “Voyeurim’s in,” don’t need no rubber for your skin. They’ll stream their sexy epidermis to your behey-yeh-hey-yeh-hey-ed We plant our daisies pixilated ain’t got no Eden to restore Thank God I never was born! I got no origin song, I’m just-A courting the now until I’m gone

So please accept this invitation To our misfits monsters bahaw-wah-haw-wah-haw-all ain’t no tight white tie or hands to jive just-a ovaries to fertilize we lubricate our test tube wombs with Gaw-hah-wah-hah-wah-haha-wad a little bit of Gohaw-wah-hah-wah-hahaw-od We plant our daisies pixellated ain’t got no Eden to restore Thank God I never was born! I got no origin song, I’m just-a courting the now until I’m gone I never was-a born I’m-a wish my momma some-a love I’m just-a courting the now until I’m Gone Gone Gone Gone Gone Gone Gone


II. (The Potato song) we goin’ go hungry Ghost! Ghost! Ghost! It’s just like being alone lone lone with the blight and the chill in your bones bones bones when the tubers ain’t growing the tone tone tone of your face is fading we know we goin’ go hungry for sure we goin’ go hungry for sure Creep! Creep! Creep! the sky came creeping with fog and rain and exports depleting the crown’s been haunting the depots with soldiers the fairy wars sewed the blackest potatoes so run! run! run! from the silence is louder than drums drums drums in the bog dweller’s hovel the tone tone tone of your sinews is aging the cuticle of the future’s receding we know we goin’ go hunrgy for sure we goin’ go hungry for sure

Tom tom tom he awoke in the soil a hole hole hole through a grave in the abbey his legs broke broke under weight of the bodies to seek some boots for his countryside travels plague! plague! plague! on the archivist’s treatment of hungry grass as peasants resisting when know know knowing’s to know with your body swallowed whole by the graves where you’re drowning joke! joke! joke! the jokes on the birthing of books! books! books! the interpre-tater of circuitry between real dead and nations the white white noise of the ghost in your tummy we know we goin’ go hungry for sure run to your mommas now we know we goin’ go hungry for sure we goin’ go hungry for sure

III. What Shall we use to fill their empty stmoachs?


IV. Snuff film The camera shot through your eyes aperture deepening the moment when your hands start hi-hee-yi-yi-yi to slide through the emulsion the bodies came clear sexless where the walls was blown thin our liberation to know suffering your photographs mean anything on that night when you shot at yourself you lay naked with your hands upon your hi-hee-yi-yi-yi “my body’s one big goosebump,” you say you framed the moment when the child smiled so big only to lose him in the melee now i’m staring at your photo of his remains and all the warriors see the death of a son and all the other warriors fearing retribution our liberation to know suffering your war torn photo’s gonna spin spin spin who’s embarrased here? you or me? you shot that child’s insides now you cling to your knees excuse your nudity with chuckles and pleas well flesh is flesh is i i i i

know know know know

we we we we

your your your your

know know know know

a a a a

photograph photograph photograph photograph

photgraph photgraph photgraph photgraph

of of of of

of of of of

suffering suffering suffering suffering

suffering suffering suffering suffering


V. THe most stellar cartographer (on mapping the labored space of regret) i’m the most stellar cartographer the world has ever known see me make it so do your bidding lord today i sign my name ethereally you see i’ve unified the universe and all the history books will read “with pixels he did ink the course of dust beyond the farthest nebulas.” the imperial pretensions of my funding government are inconsequential my topography’s the poetry scribbled on celestial bodies save my photos of the sprial cores as they’re marching toward the blackest holes see the soldeiers hold their latitutde they’re all armed with my cartesian tools save my photos of the spiral cores as they occupy red giant zones see those halos ‘round our soldier boys defending all the futures we call home i’m the greatest cartographer the world has ever known please appreciate all my artistry i’ve painted every constellation big as they do dangle from the sky

emergent within emissions from a million white dwarf stars, orbit this new frontier that I have engineered as today we Lay our claim to outer space our red dwarf starry eyes are manifest on this spatial fate my topography is poetry scribbled on celestial bodies save my photos of the spiral cores as they’re marching toward the blackest holes see the soldeiers hold their latitutde they’re all armed with my cartesian tools save my photos of the spiral cores as they occupy red giant zones see those halos ‘round our soldier boys defending all the futures we call photos of the sprial cores as they’re marching toward the blackest holes see those halos ‘round our soldier boys defending all the futures we call home home home home i’m the most stellar cartographer the world has ever known i have made it so did your bidding lord


VI.

the mortician’s daughter

she knocked over hourglasses nerves all fraught by catastrophe leave your best and leave your flowers dead heads for the mortician’s daughter

blended with her skull and tracing tattoos inked around her ankles hermes wings to fly her off the ground and up into the sky where her head would dream but her will would flounder embalming moonlight in a bottle bury her inside of me or bury her in the moistest soil

i’ll plug these holes inside her head, her holes are all that’s close to realizing where she failed herself, all soft as glass she let me see her

dig the dirt beneath my fingernails; guarantee our family she’s to dirty for a grave goodbye, her entrails spilled upon the ground

laid out scientifically my my autopsy through sandy sheets, she she knocked over hourglasses nerves all fraught by catastrophe

she knocked over hourglasses nerves all fraught by catastrophe leave your best and leave your flowers dead heads for the mortician’s daughter she knocked over hourglasses nerves all fraught by catastrophe in silence i can hear her breathing in silence i can hear her breathing in my mouth she keeps repeating “hello.”

oom-lala-oom-lala oom-lala-oom-la oom-lala-oom-lala oom-lala-oom-la oom-lala-oom-lala oom-lala-oom-la oom-lala-oom-lala oom-lala-oom-la when shaking out her dusty wings i’m preserving the sleep in her eyes in a jar her history formaldehyde and dentistry and sewing empty cavities and stitching where her molars were extracted as her sutures overlapped and crushed her earthy palate


vIi. My sweet irene my sweet irene why’s that song you’re singing always sad so sad so i can’t pull my head out of bed? now this old paint that your daddy sang you is the horse you’re riding to repent your sins but you fell asleep on the devil’s weeping arm to wake up to the horrors of forgetting my sweet irene why’s that song you’re singing always sad so sad so i can’t pull my head out of bed? now you’ve done well by your daddy’s teaching but lose your head and you’ll never sin the same way that you used to do now the king see he don’t take crime so lightly his guillotine was handcarved by a penitent who knew the score see ain’t no good or bad now there’s just sad sad sad when your eyes is cracked from bawling

my sweet irene why’s that song you’re singing always sad so sad so i can’t pull my head out of bed? now i stand outside the cenotaph my arms are awkward by my side and i can’t think to laugh meanwhile the rain it don’t mean anything save the coldness of my clothing on my skin my sweet irene


viii. a writerly device or

the small problem of gods & bodies she always beginning in media res, too many shoes for her fingers so she count on her abacus lipstick smudgin’ “gimme sugar for my tongue.” she was made to bear a child like the sun was made to warm now blind Willie McTell he never saw no stop signs but she always suspected how her poppa schemed behind her, see her daddy saw his death at her first born’s hands in the moth-ball cards that the tarot lady read her pop had been a capitalist since ‘73 lockin’ women in a building to increase their productivity surveil their every momvement on his TV screen, “my baby girl I will be watching her at every social gathering.” he was a typical god all bolts and thunder, liked to womanize with the barely too young crowd at home he’s hitched to hera out on town he plays the game good and bad’s just bells and whistles ‘round the morbid leg of fate he sat down at the bar when her hips walked in. he felt a mi-mi-mighty tingle when he laid eyes on her bare skin: she all dressed to take the fun out of love-makin’, a stiletto feminist poised deadly for the men by the cable tv hell the news loops endlessly hell the news loops endlessly hell the news loops endlessly hell the news loops endlessly hell the news loops endlessly


posturin’ breeds posturin’ and we all know where that leads: to i ain’t lookin’ your direction so you’d best not look at me still somehow they came together through his timeless pick-up line, “have you heard the latest gossip about brad pitt and angelina joline?” they spoke the language of nerves in an iambic lilt, all lost beneath the rhythm of the frat boy noise and who would put a singer with guitar there in the corner? mic up to his mouth so the whole damn city gotta hear his chatter so in haste our godly friend sought to change the situation: he say, “i’ve been known to save chaste damsels from fires and from lucifer. i’ll get anything you need, see I co-authored this scene, with my deus ex machina if you know what I mean.” to which she replied, “you underestimate me. i get everything i please with my s-mo-mo-mokin’ body-still i’ll go home with you just to piss my poppa off. but just cuz i dress like sex don’t mean my dress gonna put out.” her sass cracked a smile cross his bearded face. he gave her poppa’s eyes the slip with a snap of his fingers and they curled up on the couch back at his eighth street place where they talked all night and went to sleep watchin’ dragnet as the dawn cracked fast on the palates of the yawning-like so when our fearless god awoke in the sleepy afternoon he found no trace of her body save her scent on his pillow frustrated that he’d failed to make her earth quake with his love, he he sat out to show her what a “nice”what a “fair”what a “horny” god does when she returned home she found her pop all stutterin’ his head glued to the news and wonderin’ where she had been. he say, “you gave my eyes the slip with that wanna-be-god, that pimp, i-i can’t let you out my grip my girl i gotta reel you in.”


well the city stank like wet dogs and the alleys stank like dead ones and her pop was so afraid that his girl would go get knocked up so he locked her in a dowtown tower to keep her clean atop his textile operation where the lady slaves was weavin’, pinkies pricked and bleedin’ hearts over illegal immigration, with a can all full of pennies, and a will to roll them nickels into jam upon the jelly ‘pon a jar of them magic american beans well our fair and horny god he used his superhero sense to trace her pheromones down ‘round the bend and past olympus street and all up the sweatshop stairs where she sat in bed all fussy in a warm and golden shower he came all up inside herinside her keyhole the shiver through her body as she bit her nails and hair. she resisted and she hated as his voice pitched low from nowhere, “dig your highest heels sweet to bruise me deep as we conceive. i assure you this is real, i bit your lips to make ‘em bleed.” intoxicated limbs sweat as the temperature’s arisin’ any idiot would feel it like the sun’s been known to blind ya. she sees angels in the wood grain in the smoke that grows up dense perseus becomes her tummy as the flames they carve and twist and her poppa flips the channel to the 10 o’clock newscast to live coverage of his business all burnt in-to a wreackage; drove like hell in-to the fire but he could not save his life: see his daughter she got rescued by some writerly device well the baby sure was born and some folks was turned to stone and the feminists will recover the agency of the girl. well like the mothball cards had told, yea well the mothballs know for sure that her poppa died a slave to the propechy his grandson knocked him dead with a discus to the leg and the babes in ladies’ tummies that miraculously grow, like the beans that ferment dreams, they’re rarer than a barrel of oil that our god leaves things as knotted as they surely were before that the news keeps on repeatin’ as the women keep a sweatin’ and a toilin’ that our singer’s still up singin’ in the back there of the bar makin’ a racket, lord a racket that the whole goddamn city’d rather just ignore.


part II Ix. this darkest hour rachel you bleed upon our bed your barren soil fertile with our conception sons of pain our lineage this darkest hour this darkest day shechem to bethel bethel to hebron my pleading heels walk me back into you lord recovering my wandering piety bury the idols beneath the oak tree my son joseph our family follows your vision as our canaan faces famine you will feed our people’s needs the coming hunger will make you king through seven years of plenty seven years of naught tending your house of grain leaven our starving tribes and sew our lineage onto egyptian soil; as fertle shepherds we will propser until enslaved by pharoah

“lord i’ve returned to you in bethel here. i build the altar high, i assume the name of israel. “but lord my doubt-” cursing my blessed seed. the hour of my darkness is coming rachel you bleed you fill the soil i lay you here on this road to bethlehem this house of bread you will lament this darkest hour this darkest day


x. our lady of the scab (the burning embers of centralia) mow the lawn and pick the posies no neighbors coming home for supper trim the children’s bangs and hope the anthracite won’t burn our tosies-the cellar floors are hot! HOt! hot! the walls are scalding to the touch i plead don’t run away my colonel please the blight through which she murmurs danger! danger! keep keep out-our town is falling in upon itself-our wealth of coal for steel lies beneath her ashen sheets upon odd fellows cemetry and in the ears of those who’ve stayed look there beyond the smoking church our lady of this scab upon the earth she keep keeps the embers burning venting heat she breathes her bounty through the church bells metal ring she chimes her songs of destiny, so dance with me my steely colonel please the blight through which she murmurs i plead don’t run away my colonel dress our children in their sunday best

one million feet below the ground our neighbors’ son he nearly fell she seduced him on a whispering wind on valentine’s day 1981 i watched him dingle dangle toward her gaseous scab, his fragile cousin played her tug-of-war and skinned his hands to save the boy his parents ran like animals selling off their land with trembling signatures, erasing us from atlases but still she calls, so dance with me my steely colonel please the blight through which she murmurs i plead don’t run away my colonel the children eat but she-she hungers, so dance with me my steely colonel ease the blackened beating of her heart don’t run away my colonel lay me on this bellowing coal bed


XI. know thy gnome mage (a new anatomy of cyber bigotry) the other day at the auction house i say, don’t trust a gnome mage. they might have smooth and welltimed polymorphs but they’re fakes. like this chick whose name is tulip, she’s specced arcane. and she’s a shifty ninja looter.

“they’re slight of frame, but they will play the dumbest git to get their way.” “know thy gnome mage” my daddy’d say, “they’re erudite, but they’re a fiesty race by nature and a class of social climbers.” know thy mage

“know thy gnome mage,” my daddy’d say, “they’re slight of frame, but they will play the dumbest git to get their way.”

we took out ironaya gave her bracers to the warlock and we aggroed all the scorp pits just for kicks then tulip she /winks me so i /wink and court her /flexin’ all the fibers of my virtual pectorals makin’ mincemeat outta grimlock, I type “don’t ninja his blue drop.” i could really use his polearm for a change i’ve lost the roll three times today the troggs are fallin’ got my eyes on tulip conjurin’ with mageweave tights that give her gnomish ass a +4 sexual appeal

the other day we ran uldaman’s front door my forty-three level warrior i named “vev” she was main tanking sure i’m a guy but when onlinehell irl i’d rather be inside a woman’s body all my guildies were offline so i advertised in ironforge for a racially-mixed party to take out archimedes i found a dwarvish priest a human ‘lock a gnomish mage and a night elf talkin’ smack about his brand new krol blade the mage her name was tulip says her guild was short on warriors so i say, “hey baby, i’ll show you the way we do it down in this here instance.” ”“know thy gnome mage,” my daddy’d say,

repeat chorus when grimlock dropped the spear my tulip rolled a 93 high enough to win the pole arm though her slight mage frame can’t wield one she types, “oops! I didn’t mean to.” As she takes off with my sweet loot /shrugging leaving me to ruminate on my obvious mistake repeat chorus


XII. quality you are you are you are you are you are you are my daughter you are you are you are you are you are you are you’re shimmerin’ like a country star ow-wah-war ow-wah-wahear-ow-wah-wah you’re puttin’ on a face of makeup you put a face on alone you gotta lot of pretty friends you gotta face, gotta song ow-wah-wong-ow-wah-waheong-awwah-hoo-yea you are you are you are you are you are you are you’re smilin’ with my quality you are you are you are you are you are hoo-are you’re curled so close to me

now daddy don’t you lay lay so dang close to me-hay-hay-hee-ay me-hay-hay-hee-ay now daddy don’t you lay lay so dang close to me-hay-hay-hee-ay me-hay-hay-hee-ay my best white cotton panties absorbed your quality-hay-hay-hee-ay hay-hay-hay-hee-ay now daddy don’t you lay lay so dang close to me-hay-hay-hee-ay me-hay-hay-hee-ay your quality


xiiI. buttering toast i i always boast i don’t need anything that you stand for still you you’d love me you’d love anything that i’d stand for as you knot my body up your best intent was upset by words i will prick you under me share our syringe of intimacy this one long day we disagree on nature’s purity and my technique for buttering toast.

the songs included in and on the nova anatomia are the product of years of the writer’s struggle with the nagging possibility of a “morbid leg of fate”; the possibility of a “leg” that saunters, seduces, and trips up this musician’s common sense assumption that his life is the outcome of his own choices. the songs contained within this new anatomy confront the sobering assurance that his desire to do “good” or to be “bad” are threaded through the articulation of the femur and the pelvis. as he ages, this joint is increasingly creaky. within this habitual creak, he hears the dissonance of worn bodies seeking spirit amongst the murmurs of restless gods seeking bodies. so until another day, when our fair and horny god loses his valise to a humanmade vaccuum; or until the photographer confronts her desire to make spectacle of flesh; or until the mapmaker’s search for a fastening in the belts of the stars finds a brief respite on an unforigiving precipice of war and occupation: yes, dear listener, until our next installment, we may very well find that the nova anatomia ceases to be written; that the problem of gods & bodies sings itself; that, perhaps, you and I will be composed by the very “leg” we would walk; the “leg” that inscribes us upon this worn palimpsest, where efforts to make two of one are routinely upset by the piquant treble of tears laughed, at very high velocities, into the last of the cartons of thrice spoiled milk.


carson metzger presents a nova anatomia or the small problem of gods & bodies was recorded, mixed, and mastered by carson metzger @ Morbid leg of fate studios in albuquerque, New Mexico from april 2006june 2008. Adam hooks contributed to the recording of buttering toast. Steven nery gave sound mastering advice. carson made an effort to balance volume and dynamics in the mastering process.* all lead, backing, and chorus vocals, acoustic guitars, toy harps, effected samples, beats, basses, and blips and whirs were performed by carson metzger. headphone listeners wishing to treasure hunt will be awarded a form of recognition in another life should they uncover the secret message spoken by steven nery and embedded in the fibers of the nova anatomia. carson acknowledges his family, friends, and colleagues for their patience, support, and opinions on the many iterations of songs and recordings. yet he still maintains that you are all wrong. he also appreciates those who have attended his shows. in particular, I want to thank: tyler metzger/darvintyne for teaching me rhythm and art over the last 1/4 century; nancy waldman for emotional support and creative consultation; jim metzger for his faith in me and his encouragement; nancy and barry waldman, and jim and belinda metzger for financial support; quinn corte for listening through the walls when i needed to be heard, for her enthusiasm, and for her kind and detailed feedback; susan corte, and wina shepard for believing and listening; scooter corte and barry waldman for understanding that younger men need the acceptance of older men; the shepard clan: Robbie, bev, ben, emi, di, beth, anna, and luke; huge Thanks to pete “chief mojo” heald for his patience, his generosity, and his taking enjoyment in me rocking the living room with late-night donkey kong sessions; ka dicker for her intelligent ears, the bread of conversation, and the sinews of her musings; andy mattern for his unflinching confidence in me and his willingness to solve

problems while others sleep; ellen morrissey for being a confidant helping me trust myself; jen richter for encouraging me to write about religion and for listening in spite of my inability to play a song straight; the heald and rice families-marty, alex, eric, and dan cryer-for making me feel a part of something; adam hooks for showing me the meaning of performance and inspiring me to write; steven nery for opening my ears to hear warmth in the frost, and chills in the fire; josh johnson for teaching me the value of a late night, well-aged hoedown and helping me feel like i am no imposter here; jake kosek for for making a question of my certainties and providing content for a life’s work of song; lainee goldman for art advice, and honest playfulness; nick hudnot for challenging me on everything i believe; mel armstrong, shannon mccoy-hayes; carolyn mcsherry, kate loewe, alyosha goldstein, vera norwood, jane young, and jonathan mccarthy; the thoughtfulness of dean maier, david peters, cliff, and the albuquerque songwriter’s group; “fast heart” martin for taking notice of others in the albuquerque scene; norm everett for his wisdom on performance; glazner and the boodgand hoodlums Adam t., and mr. adam harris; martin and christina for hosting and growing performers; michael whitten, margit/ screamer wants wet food, holly, john prosser, terry and marie clements, and daniel boling. * VOLUME: this album is not as loud as many of your other cds. i intentionally mastered the album to preserve some of the dynamic characteristics of my music. loudness is highly valued by contemporary conventional sound engineers. the desire to produce the loudest records has bred a “loudness war” where volume is pursued over and often to the detriment of musical dynamism. this album is an attempt to work toward a balancing of volume and dynamics. when you find it to be quieter than other recordings in your collection, feel free to jack up the volume on your stereo. The images constituting the nova anatomia are all public domain. see carsonmetzger.net for more specifics regarding image sources. CD, book and all songs, ©2008 carson metzger carsonmetzger.net http://myspace.com/carsonametzger


a nova anatomia In which carson metzger performs the following songs: I. monsters! (my origin song) II. (the potato song) we goin’ go hungry III. what shall we use to fill their empty stomachs? IV. snuff film V. the most stellar cartographer (mapping the labored space of regret) VI. the mortician’s daughter VII. my sweet irene VIII. a writerly device or the small problem of gods and bodies IX. this darkest hour X. our lady of the scab (the burning embers of centralia) XI. know thy gnome mage (a new anatomy of cyber bigotry) XII. quality XIII. buttering toast

carson metzger presents:

a nova anatomia the small problem of

gods &

bodies

songs, cd, and book ©2008 carson metzger/ permanent records/morbid leg of fate productions

or

Carson Metzger presents: A Nova Anatomia  

Lyric Book and Music CD: To BUY visit carsonmetzger.net or CD Baby. Sonic folk singer-songwriter Carson Metzger delves into the small proble...

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