Shared Arms - Weary Ontario

Shared Arms - Weary ON

I
WEARY, ON

Gonna dig me a hole. Just a basement below, underneath Weary Ontario. Oh, the fortunes in coal and dead canaries in cages I found at the bottom. I'm proud when I look at the dirt on my hands. Holding my heart; I heard that you started a band. Well here I am. You can stamp my hand. Yeah I dig that song. Been digging way too long, but here I am forcing my funny face back into the plaster again. Pushing bullets and blades through the backs of my kith and kin. Throwing stones. Skin and bones. Speed of sound wore me down. Yet something shakes this town. Have you heard what they're calling the 'Weary Hum'? Well I think that I know where it's coming from. A combination of things: the wattage pushed out of an open-grill bass rig and the resonant thump of a well-tuned, well-worn dead wood kick drum. And here I am. Either trapped in the back of an old burning panel van, or alone in the ground waiting up for a helping hand. Feed a lie to me. Tied to me now, and pulling me up. Built in Weary, broke by honest hands. Broken down with an ear to the ground. Pull me up.

II
SLEEPING LIMBS

Seemed like a part of me. Like a leg, like a leg asleep. If I'm buckling, if I should sway, coldest shoulder showing, let me give way. Seamed to a part of me. Let the peg curse the amputee. Now I'm borrowing every second stride. Anchored to the hour. Second hands tied. I've been counting my good days over satiate ashtrays. Borrowed time left me no one to repay. It's not mine. Abbreviation in off-grey. I've been losing teeth in my dreams. I guess I'm supposed to know what that means when waking, spitting blood on my sheets. Infinite at first sight. Sawed off come quarter life. Killing time; perfect crime. I've been counting my good days over satiate ashtrays. Borrowed time left me no one to repay. It's not mine. Abbreviation in off-grey. Given spent and never saved, I've got one-way history down. We need something else to waste. Seemed just like a part of me.

III
LIT-UP BATHTUB MARY

There's a lit-up bathtub Mary in the front yard of the house her mother left her, making faces at the passing cars. There's an angel made of plastic standing in the attic, dusty and dogmatic. I remember those hassock pews made her kneecaps bruise through her sunday dress. Bless this mess, I'm through. She sold the car but kept the gasoline to torch the house. She couldn't keep it clean. There's no ceiling to my grieving, so if we're even then I'm leaving. Packed light. Been wrong. Long nights and bitter songs. No favours, no saviours. The luxuries that make this scary. The shotgun side of a thumb-hitched ride, tearing westward out of Weary. Countless wasted minutes. Our limbs and all their limits. Vigil candles near the curtains. Bandage all abrasions. A saint for all occasions. Strike a match and burn our burdens. There's no ceiling to my grieving, so if we're even then I'm leaving. Packed light. Been wrong. Long nights and bitter songs. No favours, no saviours. The luxuries that make this scary. The shotgun side of a thumb hitched ride, tearing westward out of Weary. Believing, or just breathing. If we're even I'm leaving.

SHARED ARMS
WEARY, ON

Jesse Fellows - Vocals/Guitar
Joey Acott - Bass
Mat Stewart - Drums

Cover Photo by Jesse Fellows
Layout & Design by Joey Acott
Live Photo by Ryan at Zeebrah Photography
Website by Tyler Lesperance