deadmetaphors:

tom waits' swordfishtrombones

where to begin? tom waits seems an appropriate choice, as one of his albums is right next to me at the moment. swordfishtrombones.

each song paints a picture and the music goes on where the words leave off.

it sounds
like walking into a smoke-filled saloon seconds before a brawl,
or during,
or seconds afterward,
like a bible-belt chain-gang with their pick-axes clanking,
like something you'd find in your granddad's collection of vinyls,
if your granddad was a crazed drunken degenerate psycopath,
like a sailor in a filipino whorehouse on a sultry summer night,
or the crabs and empty pockets the morning after,
like a hitchhiker on a lonely highway sharpening his bowie knife,
or a quiet sunday morning hangover,
like gasoline rainbows,
or a twenty-one gun salute,
like the soundtrack to a snuff film,
an evening stroll through the slums of hong kong,
last call at a sleazy swing-jazz speakeasy,
and that last shot of bootleg rye that's one too many,
like a dead man walking that jail-cell-lined hall to that decrepit electric chair,
shackles jangling against the cold linoleum floor,
like a rusted beltsander on a gravel driveway,
and death valley tumbleweeds,
like an irish wake,
or a mexican funeral,
or a shot-gun wedding,
or a messy divorce,
like black eyes, chipped teeth, and broken china,
like someone who's had enough and just don't give a shit no more,
like a .44 magnum chamber revolving,
its hammer clicking,
or a sawed-off shotgun caulking,
like a love song to a long-dead lover,
like bones rattling in a pine box,
or a ribcage xylophone,
or ice-frosted tree branches tinkling against window panes,
like all this and more
it sounds

metaphors don't do it justice, but then what could?
you've just got to listen for yourself.
or else...
"i'm gonna whittle ya into kindlin'."