Oh, mother, the screen and the pixels, I fear that they have eaten into the whites of my eyes. Oh, mother, the carpals and the tunnels, the crack and the clack of the subway, I fear that they poisoned my insides. It was such a luxurious skyline I saw the first time, when I met a Cobble Hill gypsy, all scarves and the scent of Europa. But she’d come from Urbana, burning like the dive bar candle between us. And I fell fathoms deep into the waters of her blue, blotted eyes. We’d get high in the rooms with the vodka ‘til the player piano would waltz us out ‘cross Central Park. And in the traffic and the towers of granite, we’d spitball our dreams and desires, and laugh as we counted the bridge lights, never noticing the tide coming in greasy and dark. Oh, mother, my heart’s swollen with toxins, infected with love and its lacking. If that futon is still in the basement, all I need is a key to the side door. I promise I won’t make a sound as I dream of that diseased city, its canyons all splitting and screaming and swallowing me down.
credits
from Collection,
released December 30, 2017
Scott David Phillips: songwriting, vocals, piano, synth
Hunter MacDermut: backing vocals, guitar
Anne Polesnak: cello
Recorded and mixed by David Mueller at his house in Raleigh NC.