1. |
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There's a knot in my stomach.
Sometimes I can't believe how weird it is to be a human being,
a wad of flesh and organs
and all of Darwin's deformities that must've died for me
to be this haunted thing...
Babies just cry, because they're having trouble adjusting
to being alive...
There's a knot in my stomach
and branches on my head
turning my blood to sap whenever I feel ashamed.
And I know they're there, because you look away uncomfortably
every time we speak...
There's a knot in my stomach...
and it's growing leaves.
Not a tree, not a human being.
Some failed attempt at suffering.
Some unknown wooden toy singing
the middle class straight white male blues.
I'm not clumsy,
there's just roots beneath my feet
trying to hold the earth in place, because lately it's been spinning much to fast.
And I can hear the harpies above me,
but it's never felt so good to stand out in the sunlight to photosynthesize.
Like the time it takes the red to dry
from a wine soaked book.
I never had an ear for pitch,
but in the stripes of light
from the venetian blinds,
I saw your body
as a perfect
C#!!!
In a dark movie theatre,
on a throne, sits a man with 1,000 faces all over his body
he's constructing the perfect awkward silence
to engulf the earth
for an eternity.
Sometimes you're the hero,
sometimes you're the villain,
sometimes you're the damsel in distress.
I never had an ear for pitch,
but in the stripes of light
from the venetian blinds,
I saw your body
as a perfect
C#...
Right around my birthday
the city streets become a cemetery for Christmas trees,
like molestation victims, wrapped in black trash bags and kicked out to the curb.
And as the schoolhouse was burning down, I could swear I heard it whimpering...
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2. |
The Glowming
00:34
|
|
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The Glowming
|
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3. |
Melatonin
05:49
|
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It's ok we don't have to talk about it.
I can read the words that form a mask over your face
and you don't have to say it out loud.
I'm growing branches out of my head.
I trim them when I feel ashamed,
But I think that you really like them
you just never mention it out loud.
Don't let the nymphs possess you!
Your hate of absolutes you stole from a book, saying,
"Nothing ever is or is not.
Everything is just always changing,
so don't limit it by saying it out loud."
I'm eating dictionaries to calm the battles in my belly.
"My gut is grumbling for a revolution"
but I'm too busy thinking, drinking, entertaining myself
to chant that picketing slogan out loud.
I nodded off while you were putting on a record
and like a dream, your naked body was made of words.
The dinosaur sheets stuck to our sweat like capes
and our skin swirled in vinyl circles to Thesaurus Rex.
But if this is just a dream you forget as your eyes are opening.
then you can wake me when I'm dead...
I can read the words you hide pressed between the pages of your thighs,
where somewhere a soldier can't kill a man, because he's looking him right in the eyes.
So, you shut yours
when you're moaning out at your loudest.
Three worlds away the earth is shaking and the oceans are overflowing,
but all it is to me are some words on a page.
I just put more sugar in my coffee,
because I don't have to hear them scream out loud.
Don't let the nymphs possess you!
Bliss won't keep you from being taken advantage of
by the ones you swore were your friends.
The ignorant still feel sorrow,
they just can't explain it to you out loud.
So I'm filling these chords with so much charm
that even the boundaries of language will swoon,
because I've got to prove you wrong:
if you don't say it out loud, it doesn't exist at all.
I nodded off while you were working on that paper.
I dreamt the Earth and sky were dissolving into a dark white.
You picked the maggots from his eyes, one at a time
while I tried to save everyone with my toy guitar.
But if this world is just a dream you forget as your eyes are closing,
then you can wake me when I'm dead...
You're making a wreath out of branches you pull from my head.
I try not to wince so you won't notice the pain,
because I don't want you to stop.
So don't you say it out loud.
With my mouth in yours I'll help you form the words.
Until it bursts from your scratchy vocal chords
and you sing it down my throat.
singing:
"You can't change the world with a line in a song.
You can't save the world with a line in a song."
You're the only drug that's ever taken me
and kept me sleeping sound next to you in your bed
without needing anything else to forget
all the subtle things that no one says out loud.
So you can wake me when I'm dead...
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4. |
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I can't think clearly today.
From the moment I wake up
the computer keys link up
to the wires from my finger tips
I've forgotten how to dogear pages
I think I'll waste the whole day
trying to remember that brilliant line
I thought of last night
These hands they used to be vines.
They used to be alive.
The words that I mumble raise fallen trees from woodchippers, without making a sound.
These bedroom walls used to be ears.
They used to make me smile.
I'm sorry I wanted real mountain tops,
but the way those coyotes
stare so fearlessly
at me from parking lots
turns me on
These hands they used to be vines.
They used to be alive.
The words that I mumble raise fallen trees from woodchippers, without making a sound.
I'll write the great American novel
when I feel like it.
I lost the scarf my mom knitted me
one night with a girl I won't talk to again
and now my neck is cold.
my neck is cold.
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5. |
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Red Snow, sweet Hot Snow,
give into your paradox.
Melting straight into steam.
Melting straight into steam.
Exhale your communist father
up on my apartment roof.
A warm endless winter solstice
to prove my superhuman curse.
When my roots dug into the ground,
you helped me pry them out
and fed me strips of newspaper
dipped in a cup of turpentine.
At night you'd cry sanguine snowflakes
and I'd be awake to lick them up.
Your smallpox scar I tried to crystallize.
I couldn't help but feel like I was draining
you.
Red Snow, sweet Hot Snow,
we'd communicate in song lyrics
written on bits of paper
you hid all around my room.
It was sonnet 73
the night you started shrinking,
"I love you like a Beatles song,
but not an Elliott Smith song."
All those words I can't pronounce
written on a paper lantern
and sent out on that frozen lake,
before bursting into flakes
and swirling around your waist
and falling up
to your
pink moon.
Red Snow, sweet Hot Snow,
soft, inverted mountain tops,
making love in puddles on the floor,
pink puddles on the hardwood foor.
All those pixelated sunflower particles
couldn't prove to me you've just shrunk to small to see.
The only person that I'm close to
soon will melt into a thick pink mist.
Your pink fog flickers weakly,
because you just felt too much.
I'll try not to hate you from the leaves,
when I become a pile of dead leaves...
Red Snow, sweet Hot Snow,
give into your paradox.
Melting straight into steam.
Melting straight into steam.
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6. |
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7. |
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w o o l g a t h e r i n g Paris, France
gathering wool to spin yarns.
the middle class, straight, white male blues.
@metaphornication
~~~~~~~~~~
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