1. |
Delicia
00:55
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If she presses her mouth to your ear,
lips open nebulas, and lets her tongue
slither, INTO your ear, past membrane,
past tiny banging bones, past nautilus
guard, to lick the edges of your brain,
gently
at first, then harder, encircling the whole
damn thing with her amazing muscle, then
squeezing, pythonic, until what matters
collapses lung-like in splattered waste,
you would believe then when she tells you,
mouth pressed against your ear,
"I am the real synonym of the word
for the place where dead men come
to kill anything left alive inside them."
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2. |
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Shall we rise from the mountain the way I
Know you probably rise every morning
Certain only of that certain stiffness
Before the relief of the release of the flesh
Crude
I know it’s crude
Words fail us
Shall we trip around these bushes, one monkey, one weasel
Neither quite sure who pursues who
Are these berries meant to be eaten raw as they come
Or saved for some sort of jam at some later date?
Crude
I know it’s crude
Words fail us
If I held out my hand, what would be the implication?
Would you slap it, suck it, twist or break it?
Hold it against your unwashed face
Lips searching out my weak knuckles?
Crude
I know it’s crude
Words fail us
With such a crude language
My only recourse then is to assume
You mean nothing and to understand
That you think I mean something other than nothing
I mean...
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3. |
Samson Gets Me Lifted
03:39
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To be completely honest
To be completely blunt
You I have dug my fingers into, rise
Like smoke and stone me hard
Your ash is in my eyes
What we break down
Becomes what burns our lungs up
You who I have ground with
Gears made of my bones
Will learn to fear the fire
My heart has known as home
What we break down becomes
What burns our lungs up
To be completely honest
To be completely blunt
An unengulfed set of walls
Do not fall to flame
To be completely honest
To be completely blunt
I have already rolled you up
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4. |
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There is something that is
A precursor to hope
And it is more vital than
Either that or faith
I am still trying to
Figure out where love fits in
I know this thing
Stubborn ass
In spite of all obvious
Demarcations otherwise
Will rise inside the cave of my throat
And is the reason
I still sing
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5. |
Tramadol Monologue
03:14
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There is a shell over my heart
There is a shell under my skin
There is a shell covering
My heart and I don’t feel a thing
Well, what have you got to say for yourself?
I asked you to stay - you went anyway
And not only did you leave me with empty hands
You had to take my love as well
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6. |
Song of the Spine
05:25
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She woke up, it was a dogwood morning
She ran down the back of the ridge
Saw him standing there by the creekbed
Looking like an angel
Daddy always said, "Stay away from them lowlanders
They don’t know what it’s like in these hills."
But daddy went down into a coal mine
And never came back around
Oh my mama, can you hear?
The hills and the hollers call for you
The hills and the hollers call for you
Where your heart used to wander
Where your feet used to roam
Oh, the hills and the hollers are callin' ya home
Few years later, few more mouths to feed
She’s in love and she’s in deep
But when he came back from Vietnam
The deeper the bottle, the better
But babies get older, get bigger, get bitter
And now they ask her why she stays
There isn’t an answer, only a sigh
A vacant look into the past
My mama, can you hear?
The hills and the hollers call for you
The hills and the hollers call for you
Where your heart used to wander
Where your feet used to roam
Oh, the hills and the hollers are callin' ya home
She showed me the graveyard, showed me the old house
Last spring when I went to see her
And I saw a light I’d never seen before
While we wound our way through memories
She said, "Baby, baby
Look at me
And when ya run without your shoes on,
Never forget where you came from."
Can you hear
The hills and the hollers call for you
The hills and the hollers call for you
Where your heart used to wander
Where your feet used to roam
Oh, the hills and the hollers are callin' ya home
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7. |
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Where there exists a query of intent,
assumption of curiosity must be made:
Let doubt, and any of its kin,
parade all grievances here and now,
turbulent disillusion having been
overplayed by
an overthinking brain. I have
prayed in my own way,
own tongue, to be content
with scarcity. This promise of
a trade - this promise of plenty -
has my ribs splayed from spine:
broken eagle bliss. What I meant
is that you have me,
just me, arrayed in just my skin,
which is my hide,
a shade of grey too light
for chalk upon cement to show
a contrast. This is
no tirade: I love
the way your face
rests, love displayed
on bones my kiss will clothe
as raiment.
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8. |
Fiend Angelical
05:00
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But what else
is soft, draping
folds, while what shapes them
is mostly always light, because
the face lets it through and we see
the shape of the beyonder shore:
heaven, and as windows we
shatter and break, softly
because my specific shade
speaks of nightly promises
of nights and of days days
days days and nights of us
infantile and fertile as field
because plow me as ye will
I come lightly
not-tripping
down aisle
I come
I come
to you.
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9. |
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Mine is the voice that martyrs
A weight too crippling to carry
Sacrificed for the sin of being ordinary
A hammer on the business end of a killing blow
The widow like the barren willow weeps
And his orphaned bastards sing their sorrows
Such sorrow we have known
In our skin, in our bones
Strike the match and let it all go
Such sorrow we have known
Begging the sky for any trace of faith
It deems fit to put in me
Fear of god or respect for madame guillotine
A newfound admiration for those
Who died peacefully in their sleep
Or else disappeared without a trace
Such sorrow we have known
In our skin, in our bones
Strike the match, and let it all go
Such sorrow we have known
I pray the ground opens and swallows us whole
Oh, to be forced to fall twice into woe
And in such a vicious manner
A mass grave for chariots that swung too low
Horses’ skeletons still tethered to their heavenly anchors
As above, so below
Such sorrow we have known
In our skin, in our bones
Strike the match, and let it all blow
Oh, no
Watch it blow away
Oh, no
Watch it blow
Strike the match and let it all go
Such sorrow we have known
[Tyto]
If she, being sage, intuits a loop through which
the eye is seen as seer,
forgive her only in the instance that she asks
for asking or, if sight
demands more mercury than silver, grant her
mercy when she speaks
in raventongue with wild in six eyes snowy.
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10. |
Vice of Verse
03:00
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I.
Voices.
No one listened, no
one listens. Can we
still hear them when
trachealis muscle
rots, leaving
only cartilage ring
and partial rings
(if left intact and not
incinerated or
obliviated by COD)
through which only
imaginary air would blow
ghostly?
Are they echoes that
exist as imprints in the
atmosphere? I hear that
matter, energy is only ever
transferred, but if it
was never recognized
as mattering before will
the void recognize it after
all? Would any of us
recognize, remember,
something that we did
not know, never noticed,
never acknowledged
as needing to be seen
or known? Are the faint
brushes of noise we can't
place, in spite of our
strained ears, echoes
of ourselves from time
future, from whence our
breathlessness begs
anyone to prickle hair
on neck, in ears, in this
time, present, as no other
time exists?
II.
In the desert where we rode
for days and days and all
our life turned into dust
with every step and scurry
of whatever creature,
whatever falling rock,
we waited, and our sides
grew numb with the waiting,
and our eyes began to boil.
And as they down our dirty cheeks
began to drip, we opened our mouths
wide and swallowed the regurgitated
gift from our mother.
And in this time, that's neither
a beginning or a middle or an end,
the paths that cross become the oaths
we choose and choose again or
the ones we dismiss and lose.
And in this time, that's neither light
or dusk or dark, should paths cross
in a muddle or tangle perhaps
unraveling the red yarn will lead us
to the footsteps we made but had
forgotten in our wanderings.
We climb as marsupial
children into the pouch
of tenderness wherever
we may find it- we do not
know any other way
although we may not
know we knew it.
And though we fry
under this lamp
we nestle deeper
into the womb
feeding our voice
through umbilical waves
as though it matters.
III.
Avoid interrogation.
Avoid extrapolation.
Avoid asphyxiation.
IV.
And if you made a mark
carved into a beech, yew,
or ash, soft wood white
and waiting to take the tip
of the blade of genius,
then perhaps the path you
chose, though it leads
to a bluff (and heights make
you dizzy) will still carry
you into the grave knowing
you were known by one.
Does cartilage rot? Or does
it rust? The throat knows,
the voices know, and I must
try to listen for an answer.
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11. |
Not Today
04:18
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Grey heron
Grey lake
On a grey day
On a grey road
O happy day
O happy day
And all shall be well
And all manner of things shall be well
And all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well
In the meadow
And all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well
In the forest
And all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well
In the water
And all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well
In each other
In each other
And all shall be well
And all manner of thing shall be well
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blood like wine. Memphis, Tennessee
Strong Style Memphis folk. Haunting, gorgeous, raw, unique - just like this city. Esoteric to the point of being unpleasant.
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