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Tale of the Lovelorn Outlaw

by Joey Molinaro

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I speak my piece, wreathed with grief while voracious thieves eat our feast. Our lithium joy is wise to shame. O sentient void, own your stains Try to talk to lightning, fight to blot polite green, nightly loss of quiet dreams: junkyard fire. Our wasted rage knows no glee. It makes a face loathingly. It frowns with spite, hooked on dreams, grounded like tumbleweeds. China town in stalemate like a sleuth lays us down with railway hijack crews. The odor from a restless birth suits my game. Mother said to spend her purse, use her name. Easy crown, safety queen; I see her crouch awaiting sleep.
Would you try once to inhale quirks and exhale smiles? Our parents’ shouts, poluted rice when we make nice One whiff of joy from boyhood tales, I watch you squirm. Your words swap out to robot lines rehearsed with scorn. Model fraud! Whine your please! Craven, cruel… Nauseous love! A sparrow flies outside my door to tweet hellow. It spies me moping somewhere scarce as it would hope. I rise to open mealworms, its wings raise and point. It makes a terririfying yell like heinous crime.
Mister B hops to the Circle K, little thief cops his hurt away. Doctor D trots with a swinging tale, chocolatey spots on fingernails. Chickadee C is particular, never says “please” or “thank you sir.” Aunt Batty sleeps to a dial tone, happily dreams to die alone.
Crows 03:26
Draped in wispy tails, a playboy poster ghost wears leering silken trousers striped like Hazel’s eyes. Haunting neighbors lawns with icy chalken gazes, waving shameful latex fingers in her face Crows! Bruises! Lipstick! Shadows! Bellwether of hope, the answer to my rage, am I a man or mope, the shocking anthrophage. Mousetraps on your sleeve like woven scales of golden chain mail from abuse forbade my soothing coos. Leaden tones of grief when no death fouls the air and all the children breathe for August harvest fair. Weep for broken pencils, soiled artichokes and brief bespoken friends who prithee “thanks alot.”
The Feather 01:55
I see a feather outside soar and flounder, reminding me how thousands of molotovs in minds watch their spirit drink like a champion. Wind shifts West. it blows like an illusion; smoke from the future into a fire of Autumn, singe and smolder, rise skyward! Doses of wisdom in grapes soak in the sunlight, ripe and yellow grown by the winery then reaped, drained, and roasted putrid brown. Oil supertanker at twelve knots slumps through the water: the Great Lake of Stupid. Twelve dozen rowboats from shore scrape at the bow with no change in course.
Pilgrimage 02:11
high priest pilgrimage- blood flows inward rush hour outbound - eyesight smoky rider, dancer, loner, anchor wartime grandma - hands shake mildly hears strange voices - with lucidity violin maker - reeks of alcohol sober acrobat - of tranquility
Owlish 02:00
You wrapped your face around my mind, I sigh hello. Your t-shirt dress, your fingers drizzling down my hip, mishapen mouth, it rows your boat. The words your breathe are sorry flowers, ambrosia rain, those gardens plump and savage floating through the air. I cannot move. Your words, Soft and plain, easy on the nose bound by ropes- your eyes to mine. Lost refrain sleeping in my clothes, owlish pout, dream with me. The world has spun us to the coast and there we met, a goat and sheep. I count the days but to be drowned. Your shaven head and crushing giggle like a kitten you command as you are drawn by midnight omens. Your homey wooden thighs, I cannot move. Your words…
La Siren 04:06
Space between wasted days. Goldfish bowls throwing stones. Write me babe, i can wait. Wrinkled globes weaken odes. Carnal wisdom I loathe to load into narrowing boats of foam along with ripped and soiled robes, honest air and coiled ropes. House of spice and wind. Quarantine of my naked shame, warring sounds of my failed escape, shared secrets and dangerous games, teal gowns of veiled dames. Maiden glitters like broken poems, kisses squarely my choking throat. Swishes down and points to home, piles of brownish human bones. Her window opened love. Her tasteless pie was done. I reached from my salon, my probing hand was gone. I tried again, again, left right and everything. A vile wind seized my arms. Her walls are closing jaws, so close I hope to pause. Though roaches hesitate, throw punches in the fate, shy grace shall lose herself. Save face and choose your hell.
Long Tongue 01:28
Shy one chokes upon her salamander tongue, flails about her lisped smile. Silent voice avows the rarest odes, every word a ballet pose. Bites a filter, peels a paper out, rolls a tiny cigarette. Smoke pipes out her lazy wobbling jaw, just as natural as a cloud.


lyrics and music written by Joey Molinaro on tour in 2016 in Italy, Serbia, Bulgaria, Croatia, Bosnia, Austria, Germany, Czech Republic, Germany, Sweden, Denmark, France, Netherlands, Belgium, Ireland and USA.


released March 16, 2019

lead violins, viola, and vocals performed by Joey Molinaro recorded by Herman Pearl at Tuff Sound Recording. Piano performed and recorded by Joey Molinaro in Valencia, PA at Hellerau. Foot stomping and orchestral strings recorded by Joey Molinaro at Spaghetti Warehouse. Edited by Joey Molinaro, mixed by Herman Pearl and Joey Molinaro, final mix by Herman Pearl at Tuff Sound Recording, mastered in New York by Caley Monahon-Ward. Styling and modeling by Guinevere Marrow. Photography, production, processing, and photo editing by Katie Krulock at Rat Lab Pittsburgh. Art direction and album design by Joey Molinaro.


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Joey Molinaro Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Acoustic experimental black metal/ solo grind violinist Joey Molinaro’s “stomping and ferocious playing is inescapable,” (Foxy Digitalis).
Molinaro “executes the spirit and function of hardcore punk and Appalachian folk” (Foxy Digitalis) with “vocals [that] haunt, like a preternatural voice from beyond the pale” (Razorcake) and torrential boot-stomping.
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