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by Hussalonia

Love on the tongue like hard candy. Who has the patience to make it last? From a surreptitious kiss to a very public incident. Eyelashes on fingertips to make a wish. January, February, we don't leave the house all that much. Not wanting you to tire of my face, my voice, or my touch. Won't you say as such? Love on the tongue may be more like a cough drop. A temporary suppressant that leaves a bitter taste in its sorry and lonely wake. The nearly better-than-nothing cure that lovers take.
If you're harmless then you're worthless. Make me feel! Make me feel! Make it dangerous. Tell me you're terrible. Take my heart and make it wearable. There's no point in leaving this world so well preserved. Give me punishment and make it well deserved. Monopolize my cerebral space. Is there a save me look painted on my face? Feline master, show me your white fur. Make me feel! Make me feel! The inexplicable, simply despicable. Break my heart and make it fixable. With the methodic execution of a spider and its web, I'm giving you permission to kill me until I'm dead.
I'm not feeling so much like the clown tonight. There's no desire to have anyone around tonight. I'm the performer who says the show can't go on. You say I'll be fine once I'm there, but I know you're wrong. Once I turn on myself, there's no saving the show. Audience, go home. Once I'm heckling my best material, you'll be crying that this must be some kind of a joke. Audience, go home.
You're a character in every book I read. I'd like to crack you open, look inside your head. Everything sighs with anthropomorphic despair, wondering why anything is anywhere. Your my infinity, my Glass Family. I'm your misfortune teller, your least favorite thing about me. I owe it all to a passive drift, a nickel-plated cow. I know we've got things to do, but I can't think about that now. Oh, "what the hell is this?" is the most profound thing I can think to say. It is what it is, except when it's something else. These instructions reveal "only distant truths." That's a little shifty, you say, but it's what we've come to expect. If you want to live in this world, let me tell you, it's real hard work.
Laugh lines worn well. You're heart-broken, I can tell. Coughing up sugar cane. Nervous worker bee, stay away from me. Nervous worker bee.
Two people alone at a reception in the city, following the flicker of Mars. Looking for space to execute our letters, contractual birds of melody. The aluminum hands of misguided glances. I could have died and come back again. And if you could see me, well, you'd feel different. I know I would feel different, too. But this was all happening before you were born. I drank the blood of infants. At the mercy of his alter, I was someone to be feared. There was death and destruction and malevolent solutions. Rusty nails all over the floor. And Satan my master, he would whisper me instruction through bats of hell perched on my shoulder. But this was all happening before you were born.
Never Been 02:39
I lost what I thought I had. I took my imagination too far. What do you want, I practically plea. Oh god, would you listen to me? In the absence of an answer, I'll take a guess. But just say the word, the answer's yes. Come sit down to me. Ear to ear, we'll hear each other think. I'm your never been.
So what? I play the guitar. And yeah, my hair is a mess. It doesn't mean I'm your dude; Don't be so presumptuous. Ever since I was young, it's always the same thing. C'mon, you're kidding me. No one believes that I'm clean. And if I seem upset, I resent the assumption, that if you're creative, you must be high on drugs. As if it's unnatural, some kind of corruption, to be so productive without stimulation. No thanks, it's just not for me. I do it chemical-free. All of my heroes did all of my drugs for me.
Yesterday, it means almost nothing today. What was that you used to say? The future will be almost exclusively populated by historians. I'm ready to sing the praises of everything I despised. Outdated maps with shattered glass, crooked frames not built to last. The paper trail has been replaced by scores of unreadable devices. All the bad math and unsound science. When possibility becomes "not this again." Every invention will eventually be misused. I'm ready to sing the praises of everything I despised.
A flash in the mirror, a shot in the dark. I know when you're shopping; I get the Tweets. This just in, ground control to major friends: here I am, again and again. Don't fall in love with yourself. Find someone else to, 'cuz breaking up is hard to do. I write a song and then I sing along. That's me on guitar, the bass and the drums A solitary entente. A dabbler, a dilettante. Free from caviling, to do what he wants. But don't form a band with yourself. Find someone else to, 'cuz breaking up is hard to do.


released March 1, 2010




Hussalonia Buffalo, New York

Hussalonia is largely the work of a multi-instrumentalist known only as The Hussalonia Founder.

Founded in 1997, Hussalonia is a "pop music cult" and claims to be owned by Nefarico™, a fictional soap company.

The Hussalonia Founder lives and works in Buffalo, New York.
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