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The Gramp Stamp

by Grampfather

Para Ti 06:20
Para Ti You, you don't even know what you do to me--but, baby, I want to try and make you see. I don't know what you've been told but, baby, lovers like us, we ain't meant to be alone. Don't listen to what your friend said no, not what your stupid friend said. She don't know any flame grown old, she only knows the flicker and the flash only what's beeping on the dash but, baby, I've got that kind of love that lasts that stuff you thought was just a thing of the past but o no no. O, fire, don't die soon. I just want to bask in this bliss honeymoon. Let us maintain. Yes, let us refrain from any unnecessary drama let us not strain. And I'm feeling like you feel the same. Cool like the breeze and warm like the hearth. Had to have lost to know what it's worth. So enter the onslaught of corny clichés, but if it's true then it's true--why shouldn't we do what we do. Well I'm in love with you and I don't care who tries to sway us with their blues. If they're self-righteous, they can't see no, they're comfortable in their misery. If they were happy, their beady, blinking, pity-seeking eyes would not realize. So frightened, so numb, never realizing what they've become. So jaded, mistaking age for wisdom. Well I've seen some young prodigy babies and I've seen thick-skulled old men and ladies-- it makes no difference as long as what they say is true. And it's true when I say, I'm in love with YoOOOoooOOuuuUUU I know, I know, you don't have to say it-- I know: "What's a story without a conflict show?" But I don't need an elaborate conceit to tell you how I feel because you know what I mean. Well the conflict is that we'd think that we'd even need a conflict at all. Well I can finally read the letters written clearly in your smile. Well I can see much better with these lenses over my eyes. O you're my prescription because you dissolved my conviction that what I saw before you was anything important. Now I know, now that those shadows are gone, that you're the fucking sun and the day has just begun. I'm so elated. I don't believe in much but this feels fated. From the depths of my apathy you saved me. Feels like I can finally breathe with this new life you gave me. O, my little love, you're my light of day. I thought I'd never find you, thought I'd lost my way. Well you're the prettiest plum I ever saw. How do you do it fill me with constant awe. O, my little love, you treat me so sweet. All my past loves cannot compete. You are my best, you are my peak. Better than the rest it's 'cause you set my heart free.
Good Mo(u)rning It's so nice when the air is just right when you can see your breath mist freeze. I know you don't like it you say you might just stay inside layered up this whole time until it all melts away. Well I don't mean to be a devil's advocate you see but what would give shape to your days without the cold? And I know that my heart is warmer having been through these storms. And I can't complain 'cause living these days is nice and easy just you and me we're sitting real serene just drinking good bean juice and fine wine from the discount aisle squirreled away in our nook devouring the last of our books. But there are times when my mind becomes idle and there arises something inside me that reminds me of how feels to be alive/a lie-- when you feel dead inside you can't hear anything else but your own youthful, illusory self-- no you can't drown it out the voice that cries the muse that tries to quell your doubt reminding you what brought you to this path in the first place: to take all the seemingly meaningless things we face every monotonous day-to-day and replace the emptiness with the meanings that we create. It doesn't matter much to me. You can call it "pie in the sky" but I still think it tastes sweet. I don't know, maybe I've lost it maybe I've gone and sold my soul without knowing the cost of it. But I don't know, maybe I've still got it it's just lurking in the depths just waiting for an offer. I know I've grown lazy but I won't let these comforts tame me. It's too damn easy yeah, it's too damn easy to play the victim-- there's nothing noble in giving up. I'm done with the illusion because I decided I would make the decision to override it. I feel fine, I'm not wasting half my life inside. Okay, it's cold, so put on your coat open up the door let in sunshine. See how the rays spread about the room illuming the dust that we've accrued. We'll never know just what we've got if we just sit around and rot. I know I grow from my pain. If you don't engage you don't get a say. Because there's substance than there's clutter-- don't mix one with the other. I don't mean to offend I just want to bend the agenda or just end the stale convention. I don't care for the words or what they purport to mean 'cause the marrow of the matter is in the silence underneath. And there's no need to try and fool me because I can clearly see straight through the vernier of such fickle convictions. 'Cause it's so damn easy to tell the difference between truths and convenient fictions. I know I've grown lazy but I won't let these comforts tame me.
Roach Motel 03:49
Roach Motel We were just some dirtbag kids getting high on the sly. We lived in a tent in the thick of the woods where no one could find. We lived in our own world we made our own worlds in our heads. When I see it in my dreams I can see that fire again. I met you down by the pond where the swans and ducks and muck all mingled. We covered our tracks as we trekked through the trail and we kept our spot good and hidden. Whenever we'd feel like we'd had just enough of it all we'd meet by the trees the ones that made your sister sneeze and soon enough we were free just you and me, you and me, we-- while the other kids were loitering down by the mall you and me, king and queen of the woods had it all. We never had much but we conserved what we had. We'd make it last a week that last pinch in the bag. We've lost the woods and we've grown old blunted by the rigmarole-- but I'll never forget the soul, and that sweet, rank smell of our dirty roach motel. We lived in our own world we made our own worlds in our heads. When I see it in my dreams I can see that fire again. We lived in our own world we made our own worlds in our heads. When I see it in my dreams I can see that fire again.
2% Juice 06:27
2% Juice You’re a bad liar— I can see what you feel through your eyeballs— don’t ya know they’re the windows to the soul? so they say say say. . . Don’t ya know what’s disclosed by the twitching of your lips or the crinkling of your nose even though it might seem like nothing at all? Nothing at all. You think you’re sly but you and I both know what the deal is— don’t assume that only you know what it is you’re feeling— it’s all about the room, I feel it too— seems like everyone’s aware that everyone’s aware besides you. You can save it— your tinted language, keep it simple: if what you’re saying is meaningful then say it in a way that’s accessible to the common being so they don’t need a degree to see what you’re saying— you better believe that such elite phrasing is not conversation but just pretentious masturbation. All’s been done under the sun. How can we break free from the monotony? How do we express amidst all the excess? What do we mean? How do we proceed? You’ve got to take the combinations that make the amalgamation that makes you who you are and what you do is what you are and what you produce is your art but it’s all determined by your intention from the start. So what do you want? Do you want to discuss or just flaunt? Put those flashy tricks on the shelf— you’re like everyone else who felt the urge to be original, driven by some self-endowed principle— well, maybe you’ve got something after all but I wouldn’t feel comfortable calling what I pass along mine, for I must’ve gotten it from someone who got it from someone and so on into time immemorial— I’m calling for a funeral of the ego—it’s like a cyst on the mind; instead, I see my contemporaries as catalysts for new designs. No, nothing exists in a vacuum so I’m content with the potential truth that, of all the imported ingredients, I possess at least 2% juice— and all the rest are not my competitors but my friends who I’m indebted to. You’ve got enough on your own plate— I don’t mean to help you self-deprecate; I just want to help to eradicate fruitless templates that only complicate the primal instinct that first inspired you to create— that simple desire just to have minds relate. And hopefully we'll leave this place a little brighter than when we came-- the sentiment's nothing new, but it's all about attitude. I don't care for the What as much as the How. It's too easy to just turn things down and harshly criticize but it's hard to realize that what I see as beautiful might seem awful in your eyes and that your sunset's my sunrise. Hey, why's it so hard to say anything that's cliché. No, don't leave a trace or else your image will be defaced. No, your muse is not yours but something you picked up from the lot, of course. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to debate it but I find it kind of liberating to remove the source from the self-- and if it's true that it comes from somewhere else-- than who's to say it's fake if you feel it? So let it pass through so I can steal it.
GOREgonzola! 03:50
Vultures Eating Vultures He was old and mean blood dripping from his beak— whenever I remember him I can hear him speak. He says, “Let go. Lie down. You won’t hear a sound next time I come around.” He dug his talons deep into the deceased rendering its tendons undoing his own kind’s seams. Then the whole pack dug in their masks to their brother or their mother or whoever was fixed for the feast. “Lie down. Let go.” Whenever I see him I swear I see someone I know. When I die, would you mind picking up the scraps off my spine and back? I’ll have had a body to live through and now it’s my gift to you and I’ll course through your heart a pulse that knows not time. There is no time— when your tomb is the womb and the womb is your food; you’re imbued through and through with a lust to renew with a thirst to consume the waste of the wasted and erase death from the face of the pavement. I’m just a bloody mess— take this burden off my chest: skin and veins, nerves and tissues; come undone these fibrous sinews lay to rest these incessant issues save me from such common misuse. You’ve got it right— there’ll be no decay tonight: the old are dead and the young are fed, ancestors reunite. When I die, would you mind picking up the scraps off my spineless back? I’ll have had a body to live through and now it’s my gift to you. “Let go. Lie down.” Someday we’ll meet again but I won’t know how. I remember the first time I saw you rummaging around in my yard— you were all huddled round the freshly discarded carcass of a soul just departed and flown off to who knows where— you don’t care, just as long as there’s somewhere to drag it off to and clear it out and feed those awful, greedy mouths. . . but in a dream I saw the scene in reverse: it was obscene how serene you all conversed like surgeons hovering above your patient like masked craftsmen so diligent gently piecing each rib to each knob beaks, like tweezers, ease in to do the job finishing the frame of the ship feeding her meat as if she were your chick and tucking her in with a nice, warm pelt. It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, thought my heart would melt. You hoist the mast now that death is past and nudge your fledgling on to set sail You watch your daughter rise as you hiss your goodbyes and cry your mo(u)rning wails as you prepare for her retreat for summer is coming and the sun is setting in the east. The lyrics of this poem are inspired by/reworked from a poem I wrote a long while ago: Turkey Vultures All huddled about the skull and spine of a squirrel, gently piecing each rib to each knob— their beaks like tweezers, the masked craftsmen finish the frame of the ship, easing their way through the mouth, feeding her meat as if she were their chick and tucking her in with a nice warm pelt. When the mast is hoisted they nudge their fledgling on to set sail, hissing goodbyes as they prepare for their retreat, for summer is coming and the sun is setting in the east.


The Gramp Stamp is Grampfather's 3rd album.
Check out their other releases:

Magnum Grampus (2020)

Gramps of Wrath (2017)

Pipes (2015)


released March 25, 2019

All songs written and recorded by James Kwapisz.
Mastered by Westfall Recording Company.
Cover art: Anna Gemo

Thanks to:
Brandon Bera (Drums: "2% Juice," "GOREgonzola!," and "Vultures Eating Vultures")
Rick Kattermann (Bass: "Para Ti")
Jesse Grayer (Drums: "Para Ti")
Fredric Johnson (Sax: "Para Ti")
Dan Shapiro (Drums: "Good Mo(u)rning")


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Grampfather Kingston, New York

Grampfather is an indie-psych rock band based out of Kingston, NY, whose material traverses a variety of rock genres, such as indie, garage, punk, psych, chill, and thrash.

James Kwapisz: vocals, guitar, synth
Tony DiMauro: drums
Andrew Blot: guitar, keys
Jake Offermann: bass

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