Cash In Check Out

Cash In Check Out

BandAlternativeAvant-garde

acoustic-hardcore poetry

Biography

Cash In/Check Out is a rapid cadence of livid beat poetry. Set with a percussive acoustic guitar, the blues tunings of Jarad B. make for guttural muscles flexed atop bone-dry honesty. With a knack for creating visceral tableaus, stories are birthed and murdered in a matter of minutes.

Lyrics

the real reason for my departure

Written By: jarad bushnell

from the scent of her i surrendered and i found a rather unforgiveable lust. in the center where the heart is tender, grew a layer of grey, indelible dust.

that primal propulsion - that primal propulsion which

sent me wailing, kicking and screaming into a frenzy with
ferocity unknown.

i tried to sleep it off with a year's worth of driving after midnight but all i got was - more highway! more highway! to outrun a
shudder sent to descend on you and send you screaming asunder is fruitless in all your undaunted tries.

i made a marathon of the highway. the cars were contestants to collapse. every exit sign, a finish line...an unbelieveably effective winning design.

five hundred miles more from her. five hundred miles more but now look at me...i'm screaming 'please...when will the relief arrive?"

for the vastness of the past and my earnestly futile future are colliding right before my eyes on a hellish horizon line. in my chest churns an engine avidly pumping away. with my best contending the daughter of the devil will be
put to rest. in my limbs are running horses, their gallop is slender and straight.

but on their backs there rides a tide of crooked stars to bow my own down low.

my tries are lines under my tires.

my tries are dirty white reflectors turned to thick black lines.

in a night meant for hollering

Written By: jarad bushnell

many a shot glass becomes a shotgun. timidness is a bruised mouth in the back alley of a crowded bar. if i was once
your size i'd be intending to pounce. if i was twice your size, those words would never come from your mouth.

to make my body a mountain i'd need a heart like a fault line. a lung to push and a lung to pull the ends of me until i turn into stone. my tremendous structure would be a reason to marvel. and you would stop all your silly talk about who bleeds more and who's the better.

in a flash i'd make it all unfold. i've got a rushing river of consequence inside my bones. in a flash it'd be the end of a show of manliness so tough it could kill.

it's pain-free and worryless, right? a persistent dependence on the size of your might. an insistency with which you so efficiently deny but those wolf cries going down my spine...what about those wolf
cries?

when that hammer in that crimson barrel heart-valve goes grinding bloodcell gunpowder. it starts the sparks overhead in that wickedly overcast cluster of nightskies spinning lightning knives and my voice gets all choked up. like adrenaline is a damn to blow to make a violent river of my volume
and tone.

but warning as awareness is a dream i forget in the morning.

besides the need to fight it down, what do i have to lose? in the crest of an incredible new moon i could not resist the muscle's urge. as the bar givesway to a crowded street, as the street givesway to a hospital room...will i be the one in the flashing car or be the one with a stitch for every wound?

organ donor

Written By: jarad b.

i was tattooed by a sound
like a cavalcade of cattle all missing their hides
under an arched golden sunrise
i dined on four legs then i choked up the brine

manifest your destiny
with chemical trickery
genetic foolery
slaughter eats sickness eats your china-plate parties

what you grow on is what you die on

you're young, too young to know the nectar you suck is a soul

i was buried deep down
under beans shaped like cattle horns and corn-row pig farms
where blood clouds storm black bones into gaping mouths as empty as the muscle of hunger

what you grow on is what you die on

you're young, too young to know the nectar you suck is a soul

burn those bones to make the sugars moan

trade in skin for a deviled bargain

shoot dollars sipping water with a bolt of hydrolic thunder

ink guts

Written By: jarad b.

our home was as there as the hope of a ghost with ink guts torn out from a paper heart

i was framed from the start
took a hand like i would take a mug shot before the cell block although i begged with harmonica sobs

i was locked by myself into a freezing season where the key was action i was wrought with ill health

while i slept, she was shooting up the neighborhood

i don't give a shit
and he knows the deal
and he knows that i know and she knows that he knows and she definitely knows what i know because i told her the full in a victorian hall

i'm a goddamn dynamite stick
i have been for the last month and a half
stuffed in a muffler set to blast
i blow my voice out in conversational car wrecks

electric electric electric

Written By: jarad b.

i was a star on a saturday
the yard was a cluster of stares skirts and alcohol
i slid through their mouths like a snake through a skull
then i rounded the neck-bend to end at their all

electric electric electric

i was the center and the surrounding all at once but i was seeking only one
she was hidden behind habit
but don't we all know to keep it fresh you need to kill it young

a chance, hours later, too drunk but instantly sober
in a commotion we were silent
yelling into ears the way violent lovers whisper
i bound her hands and ankles with an iris rope, pupil knots, scarred her back with eye-lashes

let's camoflauge ourselves with hot pink bedroom walls
we'll eat the hands off clocks so our time never spoils
we took each other down with shotgun blast heart valves and the room of your third floor lay in shards

Discography

The Good Honest Blood and Thunder EP.2007
Para Su Cara.2008
the Boss home recording catalogue.2007-2008

Set List

Typical setlist includes 80% originals and 20% covers.

Originals:
The Seasons Began to Lecture
The Real Reason For My Departure
In a Night Meant for Hollering
Skin Succumbs to a Scaulding
The Ground Was a Red and Rough Texture
Wire
How Many Guys Have You Fucked Up?
Poison Corpse Imitation
Ten Easy
Ghastly White
Hammer on, Hammer up
Cracks Become Canyons
Oh, Little Snake
Running Man's Blues
Myself Myself Myself
Organ Doner
Electric Electric Electric
Collapsed Body
Orange Train
Control Control Control

Covers:
Wreck of the Old '97
Cigarettes, Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women
Kansas City Star
San Francisco Bay Blues
They're Red Hot
Green River
Tennessee Flat-top Box
Possession over Judgement Day