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Welcome To The Palindrome


(Background singers: doo, doo)


Bombard a drab mob,

live not on evil.

So many dynamos!

A party, boobytrap. A

step on: no pets.
Cain? A maniac.
Dammit I'm mad!  

As I pee, sir, I see Pisa.


Welcome to the Palindrome!

Palindrome.  Welcome to the Palindrome.


Lepers, repel, Madam, I'm Adam.

Welcome to the Palindrome!



April's Intellectual Bacchanal


Who among us

sweeps up the lipsticked cups

of April's intellectual bacchanal?  


Who washes out the empty ashtrays

of Heaven's humidor?


Who shakes the celestial fruit

from the solar tree?

The stars are gleeming white apples

turning on the spit of creation!


Who among us slings open the curtains and retorts the curses coming from the footlamps?


Who unshutters the windows to the soul?


Who begs for loose change with a cup

made from the bones of years past?


Who sucks it up to distill the sweet sugar water

of the intransigent?


Who rattles their cage and demands the music box be wound?


Who, bellylaughing, rumbles like

a trashtruck in the morning?






Kevin James Salveson's first album is chock full of wit, energy, and head-spinning production.


13 Tracks (including 2 bonus tracks not available online anywhere).


Recorded at Make-Do Studios, Rancho Cucamonga, CA.  Drums for track 4 recorded and performed by Jon Crawford.  Written, recorded, mixed and mastered by Kevin James Salveson.




November Sunset


A neon sky,

like an unpeeled clementine,

hanging --blood bright--

in the bare

branches of the Lord.

The Creator let it drop of its own

rotten accord.

The smoke stings the sun's

bloodshot eye.

It's a November sunset:

you gotta expect a little arson.  

What will be is meant to be.


Ashes falling from the sky:

LA's an ashtray.

it needs washing dry

in the Santa Monica bay. 


November sunset:

Singed air flaked with white

angel skin.

The ember's hot but seductive.

Once you touch it, you want more.


The cackling flames

pause to laugh.

Their mouths greedy,

full of grass.

Razorblades, glinting,

carving up the canyons.


November sunset:

a little arson and

a fire in the sky.

A little fire in the sky.

Oh, November sunset.


The Snicklefritz


A ticket to Dickham,

it tickels the ribs.

Whistling, the porter

clips up your nib.


Wickets are tricky, so

I got dibs on the giblets.

They lick on their lollys

but stick to the ribs.


Liberal tub flatmates

annulling the state.

The take the next night train

to Witsend and Lake.


'Til frightened on sight

and slipped up on spit,

they tricked the shit down

and whizzed on the pits.

So that's when we say- hey!

They tripped up their wits?

They get the snicklefritz.


Sound down,

til the palm fronds brown out.

We're bound all around us

even the fawns flit

among the pawns and ponds

where meadowlarks

sell their songs

long in to the night.

Behold!  Such a sight--

so long and so tight.

Everything rises, it's all very right.

Weightless is cool,

so soft and so light.

The horizon's turned white.

We ride high and 

tie it up tight, eagles who sight

the pullers of plight

and the slitters of ritz.

Well - whoever it was who

whizzed on the pits...

They get the snicklefritz.






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