1. |
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|
By placing stones on your back step,
I’ve stretched this hole around my head.
Scribed by those whom I’ve crushed into gravel,
I’ve read to you a page from a peasant’s travels.
I peel back those ancient wings,
and keep the dead parts around;
piled high upon my black plate.
I can’t recall the weakness I’ve spent
on all the time stretching out behind me.
Adept at finding middles, I make no sound.
I whisper backward riddles
through a hole in the ground.
You peel back those dying wings,
and give the best parts away;
piled high around your back gate,
Oh the ground at your feet does quake.
We are folded up in increments, wondering,
what are these buttons for?
The light does not lead back to where it all began.
Speaking of the drowned and departed, don’t look down.
So sick and amused, the cunning and charmed
will find a way and an excuse to hold you down
in the thick of it all.
We are wrapped in tyrant’s wings.
Kicking the dead parts around,
piled high on some blackened plate.
The ground grows fat with the graves.
It’s cold, and we slide along through
old replies and currents strong
enough to take me over.
The light does not lead back to where it all began.
|
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2. |
That's Not the Sun
03:24
|
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3. |
Casket Masquerade
13:07
|
|||
|
We are the phantom limb of some once grand collective;
so full of holes, run through from a distance.
Uniform and prism minded, vagrant eyed,
from this cloud we stretch out, though we are vacant.
Out here, on some misspent horizon,
there is nought left but our indecipherable shape.
You think you’re weary now, but it’s worse when you get there,
so shoulder your share of the cold, and shake off the distance.
From where we are, you are vile and electric.
I cannot fathom the taste in your mouth.
Once more, after grave invitation,
stoned and bereft, we enter into a hell of a state.
We pour so freely now into this lachrymal vase,
that our sense is one of such impediment and ruin
that we retch, but barely can we taste it;
ourselves turn’t little more than fleshed, stodgy rheums.
Still there are some…
Still there are those…
Still we are numb…
So still in our holes…
We soar through countless phases of elations;
honed and well dressed for the occasion.
We make light of our sedation
and our need to feel erased.
Now we plummet, scale, and haunt,
then tear apart the wares and wants,
turning what they wear and flaunt
into our casket masquerade.
|
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