Songs About Being Sad

by Fraiche Delhi Boii

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1.
I can smell you on my hands, With my hands, With my nose, With every bit of exposed, skin. It seems like ages since you where anywhere, How long has it been, Four hours, six minutes, and a day. But all I want is you, every other Saturday, Unrequited love, girl it's so yesterday. And I just wish that you and I could feel the same, I just need a friend, a beer, who want's the same. But I can feel it when you smile, When you smile. All the while, in that short stunned silence, when your joy descends like rain. It seems like ages since you where anywhere, How long has it been, Four hours, six minutes, and a day. But all I want is you, every other Saturday, Unrequited love, girl it's so yesterday. And I just wish that you and I could feel the same, I just need a friend, a beer, who want's the same.
2.
3.
Now that the furniture's returning to its Goodwill home, with dishes in last week's papers—rumours and elections, crosswords, an unending war—that blacken our fingers, smear their prints on every door pulled shut. Now that the last month's rent is scheming with the damage deposit, take this moment to decide if we meant it, if we tried, or felt around for far too much from things that accidentally touched. The hands that we nearly hold with pennies for the GST, the shoulders we lean our shoulders into on the subway, mutter an apology. The shins that we kick beneath the table, that reflexive cry. The faces we meet one awkward beat too long and terrify, know that the things we need to say have been said already anyway, by parallelograms of light on walls that we repainted white. So take eight minutes and divide by ninety million lonely miles, and watch a shadow cross the floor. We don't live here anymore.
4.
01:48
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, The sunbeam showers dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. In her web she still delights, To weave mathematical sights, Dropped stitches and appetites, All alone on smokey nights. Those willows whiten, aspens quiver, The sunbeam showers dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Now she's found her Camelot. Round table set for nights, No noises or sudden frights. The Lady of Shalott.
5.
This is my final cigarette You always said we all need at least one thing to regret And as I draw my final smoky breath It is the closest that I'll ever be to controlling death And please believe That I'm just finishing the pack I'm never going back Though I know that I got four more to go Yes I know that I got four more to go I been chewing gum, trying caffeine Can't sleep when I'm alone, but I hate the party scene I'm not quite there, I'm in between This is the last one and tomorrow I'll be clean And please believe That I'm just finishing the pack I'm never going back Though I know that I got four more to go Yes I know that I got four more to go And please believe That I'm just finishing the pack I'm never going back Though I know that I got four more to go Yes I know that I got four more to go

about

Stick your head out the window at
Six in the solemnly musical morning to
contrapuntal voices of strong dissent,
That comprise the carefully orchestrated cacophony outside, arranged
by some hemi-demi-semi erudite musician and his Council of Accidentals.
A town full of brown-nosers in an old King's court: Lotus Eaters convinced they're do-gooders,
Lestrygonians, too lazy to throw rocks,
Old copies of dopplegangers of misprints, with no problems and no solutions.
While someone who is not Ulysses,
Sails home, unscathed and forgotten.

credits

released November 8, 2019

All songs performed and composed by Siddhartha Prasad unless otherwise noted.

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Some rights reserved. Please refer to individual track pages for license info.

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Fraiche Delhi Boii Seattle, Washington

a jazz boii leaning into a fresher alter ego

// mastering and good production are stretch goals //

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