Glaucus

by Gabriel Mortali

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1.
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04:40
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04:15
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04:06

credits

released March 14, 2017

Thank you to all of those who have sustained in their support of my music, and to those who knew to turn up the heat.
Thank you, Peter.

All songs written and performed by Gabriel Mortali. Additional guitar by Peter Sprague.
Engineered and mixed by Peter Sprague at SpragueLand Studios, Leucadia, California.
Mastered by Dave Downham.

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about

Gabriel Mortali New Haven, Connecticut

Gabriel Mortali is a singer-songwriter whose musical endeavors have been greatly influenced by the titans of acoustic guitar and rock-and-roll, and have also been pitched in one direction or another by those of smaller stature in genres not quite as defined. His approach is simple and soulful. His words, often cryptic and sparse, are there to reach the listener perhaps only in fragments. ... more

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Track Name: Haverstock Hill
Morning brings sheets of rain thin as wax paper along.
While I’m soaked down to my heels, sweating alcohol like, darling, we’re still young.

In a sleep, I build my way home with just the moon and some headphones.
Broken Fingers on the telephone, he said, “He’s my boy, but I don’t know. He can’t tend the line. I thought I’d shown him to tend the line.”
Track Name: Glow
We can see that you’ve got all what lies that you ought; all what poses you might like.
Hand to you heart, and begin with the start to humor motions you might have found.

Excuses you’ve sewn in your gut.
Seven keys, as many cuts.
Truth is an hour or a touch.
Glow.

It is skin, it is stone, it is snow, it is bone. Brightest death, it is low light to which blood of your throat, the furrow of your nose turn to cast all the sin behind.

Two-by-two lead a boat to a bark, rotting leaves in an autumn arc.
The sooth in the glade of our run.
Glow.

With an animal’s own coat, holy ears, blank step.

Hand to your heart.
It is coal, what you are.
Triggered motions you might have found.
Track Name: The Loathsome Johnny Long
They woke her hand at dawn. And they cut off her alarm. And they kissed her hair. And lead the ghosts in prayer.
They pulled their wet boots on. And they slid down to the pond.
And still he lay with his ghost still there.

That shell of what once was Johnny Long.
That lonesome Johnny Long.
Track Name: Nod
Three simple words from your old guitar; something inside me awoke.
Through my ears, my dear, and over the decades, to me your prisoners spoke.

Bridges, in theory, we’ll climb—stagger and search until we find—should my namesake divine.

I am your ghost. I am your frustrated child in the dank steel and stone.
And you are unscathed by the tireless parade of the satellite feed, with its vacuous glow.
Track Name: Old Toll Road
Low wind, hollow. Tame hair, raised. The magic of the early morn.
From a sea glass bottle that was cracked and drained.
Steel eyes cloak a soft alarm.
Move.
Have all your names rung out too long?
Oh, I cannot face the sun today.

Choose a direction but you don’t know why.
Take a cloudy breath and watch the lights drag by.
Just leave me shaking by the ocean side.

It isn’t rote, but is it in you? Stuck in your throat? Lies on your skin.

Please, please hang on.
Like laurel leaves. With your mother begging, “Please, please hang on.”

Watching him scratching over the ebb and rise. The chilling sucking of the pushing tide.
Frozen with barnacles and a swollen pride.

It isn’t rote, but is it in you? Stuck in your throat? Hung from your chin?
Resounding “no” in every sinew. Where did it go? Oh, nerve of tin.
Caught on too slow to keep it in you—maybe with rope, or stuck with pins.
But I must have lost it in the snow by that old toll road.
Track Name: Aviana
Sarah grew with the same thoughts, and Jack was working for the Sharks, and I’d been asleep by western empires, or in parking lots.
Still kitchen windows, frozen lawns—as if nothing happens when we’re gone.
We left our neighbors helmetless, seasons folded in their arms.

And who knows?
All I know. It’s been a long time going home.

Our absence cast along the floor, and we’re not calling anymore.
How far out past our wading knees until we’re on our way back to the shore?

And who knows?
All I know. It’s been a long time going home.