CC​:​PP Episode IV

by CC:PP

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about

The Difficult Fourth CC:PP Album

We would like to remind you (once again) that some of the lyrical content is not suitable for minors, their parents, religious nutjobs and anyone else easily offended by naughty words or material of a racy nature. You have been warned!

Due to the limitations of the technology involved, there is inevitably some background noise present. Live with it! The music is as good as it gets. And you may take that both ways...

Produced by The Pedantic Pedestrian between 2014 - 2015

Another "Cyril's Trousers, Yellow They May Be, But They Are His" Production for Bruised Banana Communications, in association with Closed Captioned For The Thinking Impaired (Fun & Cute Dept.) 2015

Those that download the entire album (oh! come on - it IS free!) will also get some spiffy, print-and-assemble-it-yourself SEEDY BOOKLET artwork in the ever popular PDF format.

credits

released July 20, 2015

All words* and voices by CC…
Recitations recorded live to webcam and GarageBand in San Francisco CA.
All music* and instruments by PP…
Recorded, sequenced and montaged in Old Hampshire UK.

* except sometimes those bits that quote other people:-
"Cantata of the Red Rock Shadow": words by Donna Snyder, published by Chimbarazu Press 2014, used with kind permission of the author;
"The Nursery Room Blues" includes fragments of "On The Good Ship Lollipop" written by Richard A. Whiting & Sidney Clare;
The Secret Bonus Track "Jizz II" contains barely recognisable quotes from "All That Jazz" written by John Kander & Fred Ebb.

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license

all rights reserved

about

CCPP San Francisco, California

"The sublime and the ridiculous are often so nearly related, that it is difficult to class them separately..."
Thomas Paine, 'The Age of Reason'

"Scientists believe that the universe is made of hydrogen because they claim it's the most plentiful ingredient. I claim that the most plentiful ingredient is stupidity."
Frank Zappa
... more

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Track Name: Cantata of the Red Rock Shadow
Cantata of the Red Rock Shadow

1.
the halo around incandescence
whites out my eyes.
Background sounds lull into dull
white noise.

Images fragment, sounds of trains
dopple through planes,
the geometric barriers of architecture.
Negative space the only true space.
The page bears fruit.
Outside the mesquite thrashes the air,
unhappy again that it is spring here.
In spring the wind gods vanquish all life,
succulence gone to wind and dust,
a cantata created from fragmentation,
the apocalyptic present,
the smell of lilac from a neighbor’s yard.

A noose dangling like a naked light bulb.
I am thinking nothing not contained
in the halo of a hanging light bulb,
naked in the night.
Nothing.
Always nothing.

2.
Waiting for the knock at the door.
Twin lovers never the twain shall meet.
The beast with two backs broken.
Boys locked in closets of baseball bats.
The fear of rats.
An infant howling for its mother’s drugs.

Take this.
Eat.
Bread my body.
Wine my blood.
Easter season brings conflagrations
close to home.
She stumbles beneath the weight of it.
her cross to bear.
Fire scourges west Texas.
What phoenix can we pray to rise up?
Low in the grave he lay.
our savior.
Waiting the coming day.
Our lord.
Her cross to bear.
Her life to lose.
Her grasp on life loose.
Breath turned brown.
Death’s earthy ground.

3.
Sound of water running.
Telephone ringing.
Rock of ages cleft for me singing.
He is dead and we are left dying.
Sepulchral voices accuse of lying.
The sound of water over rock.
Paper over rock.
Scissors rend paper.
Rock breaks scissors.
Superfluous options.
A liar’s waiver, voice haunting.
Spiritis evaporate to dust.
trains thunder through the barrio.
The sound of motion.
Steel on steel.

Hurry before the spirits steal
what’s left of sanity.
Peal after clamorous peal.
Bells ring warnings.
Effulgence pouring.
Someone’s at the door—
out the door running.

4.
The murmur of women praying.
Drunken lilies
nod their heads like sages.
Irish poets sing in French.
Smell the scent of angels falling.
Bells clamor above death’s stench.
Sparrows huddle, not the least of these.
Desertscape desiccated and austere.
Heaven the sound of water running
over rocks somewhere hidden.
Somewhere out there a choir of angels
beat boys with baseball bats.
Adesti Fidelis.

5.
Four flaming drays running away.
Everywhere the smell of excrement
and fire.
The life as sacrament.
The poem as testament.
Track Name: Another Twilight
Another Twilight
Twilight is my favorite time to be walking. I'm walking. Right now. Just walking. Walking and typing into a phone in Fort Mason park. Heading home to my husband, my kitchen, the evening meal that awaits my creation.... Conifers line one portion of the footpath, their seed-bearing cones hanging heavy as the clouds in this dusk. Waiting for release. I wonder if trees have memory in their seed pods, if they know they are displaced like me. We are not of here.
This same park holds palm trees on the other side of path. They too reside here in incongruity. I wonder if they dream of heat and mist... of mangroves and skies that scald their frilly little fronds. Their roots longing for the tropical sun. Or is what we think of as 'roots' really a 'seed'. The seed’s job is done, but our roots continue to grow and feed wherever our eyes meet the horizon. Still, I wish there was a place that I belonged… a ground my roots long to thicken in... But I'm a dandelion, a weed, pushing my way through concrete beds, to the nothing - carried away by the whim of the wind…
There is an interesting American Indian saying about the wind, and why they don't wish to move from where they were born... The American Indians say "the wind won't know me." And some people believe that when our bodies die, our souls must go back to the very place we were born in order to transition to whatever is next. I know the feeling they have. Sometimes I dream of the Beatles song..."Once there was a way to get back homeward...once there was a way to get back home..." and am forlorn over wonderment at where my "home" is. I've learned this, though: Home is where the heart is. Really. it is. Now finding that heart, well... that's another thing.
Track Name: Jungle Warfare Hair + In Vino Veritas
In Vino Veritas
My head is on his lap. A thousand fumes swirl purple, possibility dances around the room. The air is distilled - raining ruby droplets, soft as mist. His fingers try to free the unruly tangle of my jungle warfare hair, but pull back in retreat as they feel the resistance. An arm appears from nowhere, tugs my body, scooping me in tighter. I lift my head. My neck cranes, stretching to stare up into his mirror eyes. They're glazed with my reflection. I hear a simple song. The lyrics cry, they say my happiness is his ambition. "That's all I want", he murmurs. He slurs this only a little.
Track Name: The Nursery Room Blues
The Nursery Room Blues

resist
Resist
R
E
S
I
S
T
deny
Deny
D
E
N
Y
Don't look!
Don't touch!
Don't tell!
Stop ASKING...
why
Why
W-H-Y?
Bless me, Father
For I have sinned
But the sin
was in the Lies...
The Lies were in
the cat's cradle
so deftly woven
in lollipop guise
Rock-a-bye baby
on the treetop
When the wind blows
the cradle will rock...
STOP ROCKING THAT CRADLE!!!
When the bough breaks
the cradle will...
with
tangled
stringy messiness
take that inevitable fall...
Then
Ashes
Ashes
And we all fall
down...
Down...
Down...
the rabbit hole we go...
When we'll hit rock bottom?
Fuck, if I know!
Hey, come on Jack...
Be nimble.
Come on, Jill
Be quick.
Or you may get burned
by that candlestick!
Hell's fire...
Lord, I am not worthy
to receive thee...
But only say the word
and I shall be healed...
Heel, Spot, heel
Stop spinning that wheel!!!
Little Jack Horner may never get out of that corner
while Miss Muffet on her bigass tuffet eats her curds & whey
Cuz Russian Roulette's NOT
a game built by Nintendo,
So...
Ok, Peter, Peter Pumpkin eater
you had a wife but couldn't keep her
Sure, stick the bitch in that pumpkin shell
and there you'll keep her in marital hell
Tis she spontaneously combusts
But...
HEY!!!
No worries,
'Cause, of course...
All the king's horses & all the king's men
Can pick up those pieces
and put them back together again
No?
Oh...
then maybe
some other time...
Looks like Love
is just
Another
Nursery rhyme...
Track Name: Didn't cha Know?
Didn't Cha Know?
They say 
the clothes make the man

but I disagree

Show me the glide

in his stride

and I'll tell you

Who he could be
I've never seen your gait

yet, I know you stand arrow straight

casting long shadows continents wide

I bet an exploration through your countryside

would give me the sweetest ride

along the confluence of your river's swells

into your Mississippi mud trails

I long to take a torrential dive
When I walk

my hips sway to the beat of my heart

swinging to a primitive rhythm

strong and steady

like the pendulum of a clock
Tic toc

Tic toc
I pound the ground

and command my space.

I feel the core of the earth

that ore smelts into my pores.
As I transpire, I respire elemental fumes,

The planet's mantle becomes my throne

its submission elevates me to places unknown
Now is my season

The world is mine

I am its reason

And it is my rhyme...
But I do not weight myself down with anchors
Nor ensnare the rare fish with word-bated hooks

I leave that to the erudite and the learned

I did not earn the bites

Of the polished apple I eat

From the wan yellowing pages

Of dust-ridden books
My knowledge is very limited

That's true

It ends with me

And begins again with you
But every education has its price

And such a heavenly body

Can make a willing study of any vice
My winnow window has

No need to hull the seed,

It will eat up every bit of your wisdom

with gleeful greed
What you call your rusty water pan drips

On my lips

And I lap up every sip

of its milk and honey
Your alley cat Kerouac 

Tickles my whiskers

Making me purr

Yes, I love

The way you stroke my fur
Paste me with your flypaper glue
Those sticky icky bits of you

ignite my wings

But I'll never burn free

I soar high in the sky every night

Carrying the essence of you with me
Like the white smoke of papal hope

Together we shall rise

anointed in the new
Tearing down the boundaries

of the real

making the miracles 
of the ancient's promises

come true
So Buon giorno, my favorite 
Stradivarius fiddler crab.

Yep, I am here like the mad wind
Trying to find the bind to lure you

from your sandy burrow

til you wave that big violin claw in the air

and shout "Hell to the yeah!".
Maybe I should make like the tide and hide

so that you feel the coast is clear

to come out here

flip your liquid golden lid

and feast on my fruits of le mar

with your fiddler on the roof sand dune glee.

Yessiree...

I do miss your bliss so very very muchly...
Guess I'll just leave you a shallow saucer

of moon milk out at night

with a flicker of candle for your alley cat-eye to sight
And keep my heartlight shining bright

til you phone home, ET...
Maybe I'll recede to give you the quiet

you sometimes seem to need...
But I know how hard you breathe

the stench of my sex is on you

all the relief that you seek

is the buried deep 
in the treasure that lies

between the fertile valley of my thighs
Ubermensch, I need an infusion of blood
For all this time I have patiently stood
Waiting

Negating

The other...

But no more!
I need succor

I wish to drink deep of your Nile

to be soothed by the groove of your ooze

but sans the ruse

which the clever Ra used

to slake the savage thirst

of a rabid Sekhmet

Oh no... 
THAT

Will never do...

not for this lion queen!
This connoisseur cannot be fooled
There is only one taste

I want to savor the flavor of

and that, my Zooma Zoom Zoom

of the Big Badaboom

pools in the cry of the "SPOON!"

that Ticks within the tattletale heart

of you
Eclipse me

Eclipse me
My man on the moon.
Track Name: Lady Liberty's Face
Lady Liberty’s Face

I beg alms from the rare passers by

Here at my little corner of the universe
The one I painted myself into

With gradients of gray charcoal

And unsteady fingers, constantly erasing

or smearing the blurry lines between
The reality and the fantasy

The Agony and the Ecstasy

The You and the me.
It's never a pretty picture.
My bowl is still empty, too

It's got a drain in it that can't be 
stopped up, or so it seems...

Every bit of love freefalls into its abyss

I told you that one day you would tire

of this explosive suitcase bomb kiss

that I proffered.
My allure has

a built-in obsolescence

A must-destruct code

in its concupiscence.
Just call me Pris.
Like a Tyrell Corporation

mendicant replicant...

I want more life, fucker...

But all my crying is in vain

It's just tears in the rain.
Wish I lived in an

Ansel Adams photograph

Instead of floating along

this megapixel Asimovian Babylon.

His blacks are not shadowy

And his whites don't blind
He snapped shots of a world

Tinged in a Patron silver

tequila spun light
So unlike

The cyber hyperspace

I inhabit now...
I'm lost

Got caught

Inside

The cool blue blight
Its 
Wavy gravy particles

made to mesmerize.
How did I let this happen?

This viral dance
with ribbons of words

Tied into sailor knots shot
Out of a Howitzer

with errant arrows

That boomerang back

to wound my Eros.
All those streamers of

meaningless encounters with you

Gaily waving in a
 festive doomsday wind

Tied to a motorcade cruising

at Sunday afternoon ease.
Sulu at the helm...
Oblivious to the danger

in the parade

Never seeing the Oswald

crosshairs on the grassy knoll.
Our smiles wrapped

in bright birthday bows

and honeycombed in hope...

As we dive-bombed the future.
Those playtimes?

Where did they all go?

The sand pails and the apple trees?

The rainbows and the sweet dollies?
Guess they all eloped

with the Easter Bunny

Or were kidnapped by the Sandman

To sow dreams for other deluded folks

With self-forged yokes

that choke and sputter

In a chitty chitty shitty shitty

bang bang gutter...
Gutter

{{{{Shudder}}}}

Utter 

the

Gutteral

Language
La Lingua Franca...

Che stancha!
I'm sick of words.

Sick of people who wield them

like the Evil Queen's mirror, too.
"Mirror Mirror on the wall

who's the cleverest of them all? "
Making obvious observations

seem like grand epiphanies.

Weaving prayer rugs from the grazing

of their jelly belly lint.
Such little bundles of wriggling Id,

Colicky and cranky crying out constantly

Their chronic need to show their profundity,

Spewing geysers of gullibility.
Me, included...

Blah blah blah...
We think, therefore we are.

We are, therefore we think.

And into the abyss we sink.

Stinking like 1000 year old eggs

Chicken, egg.

Egg, chicken.

We don't care as long

as it's finger-licking
Good
Just as we should...
We are the gift that keeps giving

Just ask the universe

Who's on first?

No!

Who's on second!

I thought you said
Who was on first?

I dunno...

Third base!
It's all a second rate

Machiavellian vaudevillian show.

Screw it, spew it, then chew it...

We pedal on the Krebs cycle, yo

Til we cannibalize ourselves

The bastard children of Cronus, after all.
Let's make a Gulag Archipelago Incanto

And sing old sea chanteys

with the ghosts of the oppressed.

Nobody realizes that they are so blessed

until you strip them and whip them...
"The secret of joy is the mastery of pain."

Said the goddess Anais Nin...

Damn such self-realization
It's probably considered a sin...
Track Name: Ojáncana
Ojáncana

It is the eye of the beast in a storm of red that throttles blood from stone. The storm has arms that wrap around unsuspecting men - like you. Her perfume is damnation, but you swallow the scent like honey because it pours over your tongue and enguilds you, making you sing her name out to the stars. The smell of grilled meat is strong as her thighs tighten their grip. You feel your breath shorten to gasps. The moon turns a blind eye and douses the night - the ground is wet with anticipation. The fall is soft, the reckoning is hard, but her embrace is stronger than time and you never feel the sting as she tears through your belly. You are too busy feasting at the altar of your own sacrifice.
Track Name: Comé Mierda
Comé Mierda

“You’ve got pineapple picking hands”, he told me.
I was 10. It was summer. We were in Dona Juanita’s apartment.
421 East 102nd St #1-C was my sanctuary even though it was only just across the hall from where the bad things were happening.
There was no bell tower
, no hunchback, and I wasn't a gypsy (although I loved the name Esmeralda and used to don scarves & rings for Halloween before I gave that sort of thing up a couple of Octobers before), but Dona Juanita's door was always unlocked, and her apartment was clean and welcoming.
I looked at my little hands, at my short square palms, at all the many lines that were etched across them. I hated them. I wanted soft smooth palms with long tapered fingers like John’s. John had the hands of someone born to play Schubert piano concertos. My hands looked like the road map to a country in upheaval, like something concocted by a mad cartographer drunk on mavi and rum.
When John shared his impression of my hands, I imagined the Puerto Rico 
I had never lived in. I saw endless fields of pineapple, prickly and golden,
oozing their juicy fruitfulness, ready to be snatched out of existence by
hands expressly designed for that purpose. Hands that John remarked
 about so disdainfully. My hands turned into scythes in my little 
kaleidoscope mind. I sucked on the sour jelly of a quenepa fresh off its 
dead vine as I considered the implication of my pineapple picking hands.
Of course, John’s name was really Juan - until he changed it. He was named after his mother, but declined the honor as soon as learned the difference between a boy named Juan and a man named John from the backwoods of East Harlem. Had he been a man named Juan from Barcelona, he might have reconsidered the name change. Then he would have been a rare form of esoterica, not just another ghetto dweller ashamed of his heritage.
Despite John's cattiness, I enjoyed his company, much as I enjoyed the company of all adults at that age. I liked their chatter. I found conversation with other ten year olds tiresome. Adults lived rich complicated lives, yet all seemed so incapable of dealing with the issues they grappled. They amused me.
John had the glamour of being 6 feet tall, strongly built, 25 years old, singing Puccini operas in a rich baritone, painting mythical figures with a primitive palette in thick geometric dashes and swirls, collecting marsupials, snakes and other forms of reptilian exotica. I smile now as I recall the menagerie. Using Dona Juanita’s bathroom was like entering the petting zoo at Central Park. Frogs and turtles and lizards all co-existed peaceably and swam around in Dona Juanita's bathtub. John's rabbit and ferret were kept in cages that were not much smaller than John's bedroom.
John took this occasion of his inspection of my palms to remind me that I would never amount to anything, that nothing would become of my life, no matter how many grades I was skipped in school (as I had been twice in two years), but I suspected he spent most of that night and many other ones trying to forget all the bows and dresses his mother, Dona Juanita, made him wear the first 10 years of his life, so I forgave him instantly. On days when the mercury on the thermometer is high, and (for whatever reason) my confidence seems to be evaporating at the rate of every bead of my sweat, I look at my hands and hear John's words. Still
Track Name: The Rock
The Rock

The pain was swallowed. Ossification had been slow but steady. Flesh churned to stone. Stone ground to sand. Sand burned to glass. Can you see through this vitrine window? This is not a body. It's a terrarium. Fed by a crimson lake of carmine. Its salts cloud my vision and flood my dreams. I'm crawling with insects. Go on, tap my screen. But don't leave your fingerprints smudged on me. It might identify you, us and what we are, or worse - what we aren't. I'm tired of living in this bell jar. I'm breaking the glass. This is an emergency.
Track Name: The Pulse of Dead Seconds + Put The Blame On Mame
Put The Blame On Mame

He comes to me

his hot breath masked

by the icepack
he straps 
to his head
to keep cool
Both hands fall off 
the clock
& all the 
hours deteriorate into

a messy pile of random debris
I feel threatened by 
the pulse of dead seconds

trying to scale the glass
the music they played was 
once so pretty
but now 
every note sounds out
death
Track Name: Throw The Dice
Throw The Dice

I was walking along the beach thinking of Heisenberg's Principle, the idea of our atoms bombarding and affecting everything around us, about the effect the wind that was blowing on me could have as all the breath it carried from so many lives, past & present, blended with mine.
I was wondering, too, what more than its gritty grains the sand gave up to me, what it lost or gained as I dug my heels in, commingling the impressions, desires from every person that walked upon it before I did, wondering if we were always exchanging raw data - every second of our lives... wondering if I could feel someone else's kiss in the wind... and was mortified. I don't want to steal anyone's kisses...
Wondering about reliquary halls, and the essence of what we are everchanging and if we were always recombining with the world around us, are we who we think we are? Or is this constant state of flux a negation of our being?
I was thinking of love and the cosmos...
I guess I always am.
Always indulging a nation of images

I imagine I hear the moans of captive tides

being discarded by the wind

That same fickle wind

that blows through my hair as
the setting sun
lights the copper-fire

burning within each strand
of barbed wire that

assaults my scalp,

and in this dimming light

I begin to wonder and reflect on...
Why?
Why each frazzled tendril of mine fights

with a bloodlust, trying to secure its place

on my otherwise carefree head...
Coiled in constriction

with a tenacity that I (futilely) wish to believe

belies my nature -
- But I know what I am.
Don't I?
These follicles of mine are contortionists,

rebellious, desperate wantons

holding their fierceness with 
a tension never sprung.
Maybe my hair's prickly nature really expresses

my repressed desires,
my husband

says they are always unruly and tangled

because they love each other so much
that can't bear laying calmly apart.
It's a sweet thought, in a perverse way.
Is it my unsung cries of frustration

that tousle them in these moments of 
mid-January leaf-breezing?

The sky's combing teeth
grooming me...
but for what?
Only the wind knows...
There is something about walking 
along the ocean that always seems 
to untangle me --
leaving me sea-scented

and perfumed by an atomizer

of cosmic possibility.
Feeling that luscious honey-spill

of light rays and pachouli that calls to me

from the Crissy Field dunes every twilight

I know... I sound loopy...

But I like me that way.
I walk on the sand and consider

whose foot imprints flirt openly now

with my bare toes, leaving their

impressions on me in this giving ground

if I were to follow along some righteous man's path

will forgiveness for all my sins later be found?
Can I breathe in the lives of a million pasts

from one gust of air circulating all times at once

in eddy currents of despair, hope, love, hate?
Does sunlight teleport secrets in ionic exchanges

whispered in worlds unseen and unheard

by the seizures of man?
Is the who of what I am changing

as I rummage through the relics of sandy past?
As I shed cells & respire

into the atmosphere of Now,

does the air commit mitosis with me

in fulfilling some sated purpose

with a plan to form other beings

through the emissary of my essence ?
What creatures do we birth

from the expulsion of our dark matter?

And whose galaxies will they portend?

Are we the sun they orbit to warm their cold spots?
In our emergence with an impartial world, is there choice, or

do we unbecome to the pinpoint of what we are not?

Or are we not knotted to the what of the us?

Ego living on in the tensegrity of eternity?
This is all babble, but I'll go on.
I am just one big question mark all the time.

But I like me that way...
The Japanese rebuild ancient temples

plank for plank
as the old wears out 
to be borne anew --
rebuilding with 
the same tools
simple structures millennia old
Their history

A heralding

A visceral outpour

streaming in muscle memory,

The Past's gifts mine in the veins of minds.
Culture becomes ingrained.

Encoded in their people's DNA.
Using techniques preserved

lemony fresh, their elders 
and their elders elders live on...

their infinity blowing the sails of Theseus' ship...
The old is ever new --

this happens to me & you, too.

Our bodies rebuild us
cell for cell,

kiss by kiss,
year by year

Making all human beings

walking talking paradoxes
I wonder if we'll ever be able to replace 
a shattered psyche

Prosthetically?
If Captain Hook had two fleshy hands

would he be the same man

that tried to kill Peter Pan?
We can clone Mary's lamb 
with an eerie precision.
But why? 

Won't she only just lose him again?
Cybernetics promises eternal perfection

but do we then cause cellular insurrection?
How many nerves can we Xerox?

Will that actually make a man?
How will we ever know 
the damage we can do?
Frankenstein used sky's fiery cry

to make his Lazarus rise

from bits of Cain he was able,

but the gods threw him down a ditch
gave him the Old Scratch to itch
The Devil's in the details when a mad scientist 
gets hooked on a Faustian pitch:

Money back guaranteed or double your destiny...
The Gods don't like a gamble

Unless they throw the dice

They always make their point

That's why they live in Paradise

And if they let you roll them

No need to think twice

They'll be all 7's & 11's and

You can bet you'll shoot snake eyes
However I am the master of my own blue heaven

I could hitch another ride, that's true

But I don't choose to in a galaxy of possibilities,

my dice keep rolling your point.
I don't know what, why, how or who

All I know is I'm a Right Bettor

when the shooter is you.
If I took the memory of your kiss on my lips

And used it to light a sandalwood pyre

then kept the incensed ashes of our desire

faithfully in the Shari-den or maybe in a bell jar

would our love live again?
Or is that just another relic collecting dust

on the shelf of one possible Past's unworthy trust?
We are the reliquary of all that we are

We are the combustion of Life's lust.

Love isn't some option to be weighed

and meted out in careful measure

It is every particle accelerating in

this universe.
It is a must!
"This desperation

Dislocation

Separation

Condemnation

Revelation

In temptation

Isolation

Desolation

Let it go
And so fade away
To let it go
And so fade away
To let it go
And so to fade away...