by Tristan Wallace

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a bunch of covers recorded in my bredroom over a course of a couple days


released January 22, 2015



all rights reserved


Tristan Wallace Toronto, Ontario

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Track Name: to see you alive (flatsound)
you can’t be by yourself
you can’t be by yourself
they kept you in the dark
in a room with nothing sharp
until you were well
you told me that you were so
scared of what they know
but love isn’t afraid
love is using your first name
in the poems that I wrote

follow me to a home
abandoned at the shore
there’s a story on the walls
written in marker across the halls
that you’ll adore
and no one can see us now
like the sun behind the clouds
lets grab a drink for lunch
and wash out the taste of blood
from our guilty mouths
when you stepped into the light
I saw it running down your thighs
and thought what a beautiful sight
to see you alive
Track Name: waste of paint (bright eyes)
I have a friend, he's mostly made of pain. He wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor. You are blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me.
I am a waste of breath, of space, of time."
I knew a woman, she was dignified and true. Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and she decided the rest of her life,
from that point on would be a lie. But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept.
What did you expect? In that big, old house with the cars she kept.
"Oh!" and "such is life," she often said. With one day leading to the next,
you get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her.
She never got upset and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best.
She was free to waste away alone.
Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove. And this cop pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You have got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, the son of a banker, you don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful. And your carelessness,
it is something awful. And no, I can't just let you go. And though your father's name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone. You're nothing but a stepping stone
on a path to debt, to loss, to shame."
The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles. They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful that someone actually
receives the prize that was promised by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me. I'm sick, lonely, no laurel tree, just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually? Like Love is some kind of lottery,
where you can scratch and see what is underneath. It's "Sorry",
just one cherry, "Play Again." Get lucky.
So I have been hanging out down by the train's depot. No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there. And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your lives one track, can't you see it's pointless?
But then, my knees give under me. My head feels weak and
suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.
And I am never real; it is just a sketch of me.
And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.
So now I park my car down my the cathedral, where floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people. I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle. When voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there is some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them. The range is too high, way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue, forget the song, tie my shoe and start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on, with my broken heart and my absent God
and I have no faith but it is all I want, to be loved and believe in my soul, in my soul...
Track Name: Survivor's Guilt (Coma Cinema)
expectations weigh on me
to satisfy these endless needs
and i don't care and i don't know why
maybe i'm no good inside
all this wasted time
to see your fucked up life
become mine

all these thoughts just won't be still
i bless my habit, pray to pills
i can't be part of your life
until i know how to die
all this wasted time
to see your fucked up life
become mine

fake flowers begin to wilt
in this house my heart had built
to keep me far away from us
i know i'm not brave enough
keep me far away from us
i'll never be brave enough
all this wasted time
to see your fucked up life
become mine
Track Name: doing all the things i used to do with people, part 2 (teen suicide)
stay in bed, sometimes turning to my right, until i close my eyes
this is not a song about sleep or death, it’s about something much smaller and paler than that
i’m not going to show it to my friends.
cause when i came home i’d lost thirty something pounds,
i didn’t leave my bed, i threw up in a bathroom in baltimore
before dancing with a girl i’ll probably never talk to again.
we won’t be friends.
and i won’t be nice to anyone because i don’t see why i should.
i don’t see the point, i won’t get clean for the rest of my life.
i won’t be nice