1. |
King Spider
02:34
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stoke fires with your father bones at night
keep it down & riled when turmoil’s fresh inside
keep close tired arms from morning flight
holding someone’s head down
baptized in the wishing well
quench deep thirst swallowing spare change
miracles are manmade
poorly laid plans are often the blame
rotten hope is raised and tended with an unsteady hand
clasping clamoring uncertainty and when I ask the wind my name it replies in a whisper
then goes hush
and the world is solid and hollow
and old crow moans
til the bottom strung lungs become blood
and exhale is thick mist
our fingers are numb but still searching for a pulse
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2. |
Night Terror
02:41
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My mother sings still,
as she sleeps within the sun,
I glimpse and go blind.
My father will wail,
howling about tomorrow,
tearing at his throat.
A still spectacle,
black curious wings quick clipped,
flightless without sight.
Lain light, half shadows,
swallow wallows home sallow,
soft morning glow looms.
Darkness deafening
eyesight mired making shapes
naught in the silence.
Hollow birch blooms out
towards the loon moon setting
against her psalm skin.
Dying on day birthed,
void humming, sung all winter,
quickness of deep sleep.
My mother sings still,
as she sleeps within the sun,
I glimpse and go blind.
My father will wail,
howling about tomorrow,
tearing at his throat.
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3. |
Conjugal
02:57
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I am a lonely lamb,
a disenchanted man,
mute because of the hex on my voice,
song-singer made sinewy,
my speech all cracked,
speaking quickly with my fingers,
punctuation actuated upon my chest,
I hold rot in my hand,
where a new flower blooms,
once every afternoon,
it reeks of sorrow as it blossoms and fades and forms the moon,
dead petals given back to the earth,
and from the soot and the soil comes a hurt,
sharp and short but deeply scarring,
like love unwound and then bound,
black holes in a kindness that is cracking,
stolen murmurs from a mouth rehearsed,
borrowed faithful words are lacking
any sort of regret to hope,
or could it be that we're all done mapping
the lines upon which we worship the most,
they led us home in the night,
calling us to cull the dulled senses from our bones,
dissected in parts and studied for wants,
anatomy of our mortal coil,
understanding of our foreign soul,
sutures set in,
fashioned from a languid thought,
they will keep my limbs together,
I did them myself,
I did myself in,
happiness is sin
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4. |
No Rotten Son
02:18
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I’m waiting for the right time to get my life together,
It’s like waiting for the rain; I don’t know what I want.
But I need something that’s been lost,
A ghost, she sings like meadowlarks,
I woke her from her sleep,
Shaking Christmas bells in a clenched fist,
To pass the time whispering secret things,
Like why everything isn’t right,
And how can I be the good one,
No rotten son
No more
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5. |
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6. |
Conjugal (Instrumental)
02:57
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7. |
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8. |
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