1. |
Son of the Queen
10:33
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Isolating the cross-hatched memories
of those starless nights
when we searched for light
to pour through the wounds we carry around,
fashioned after and fawning,
we, now downward, fall.
A cast-iron bodice over the whimsical
has us chained to everything.
It’s been let in, so let it stay.
Put your mouth where rats have been.
Falling in and out of a sleepless dream,
on the wisp of some chromium tide;
mother of lies, and son of the queen.
So let it stay.
It's been let in, so let it stay.
With our old friends piled high,
and our pockets full of crippled knives,
we carve our own hell out of everything.
It’s been let in, so let it stay.
With empty hands,
and our mouths full of wilted knives,
we carve our old selves out of everything.
It’s been let in, so let it stay.
Blessed are the led
Blessed are the lame.
Put your mouth where rats have been.
Falling in and out of a sleepless dream,
on the wisp of some chromium tide;
mother of lies, and son of the queen.
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2. |
That's How They Get You
11:11
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Bleeding trails, a map to everywhere you’ve ever been.
Seeping in from beyond the boundless fringe
you cannot be sustained, and won’t be washed away.
You light an abandoned fire in someone else’s yard.
That’s how they get you.
I’m crawling out of your backward temple.
It’s too cold for me and my stubborn bones.
That’s how they get you.
Filthy and pale, you fall from everywhere you’ve ever been.
You sleep with enemies behind a clouded lens.
You cannot be sustained, and won’t be washed away.
You fuck like an abandoned car in the courtyard.
That’s how they get you.
The thing about once warming moments;
you wrap yourself ‘round and around,
trying to bring down in one swarming motion,
a blackened tide of ruthless new clouds.
That’s how they get you.
By sweet stabbing motions the river ends
and brings you an ocean of hidden friends;
calm and bloated.
In self-defence, I go through the motions.
I’m crawling out of your blackened temple.
It’s too cold for me and my stubborn bones.
I’m falling out of your blackened windows.
Forgive me, if I follow you home.
Right…
By sweet stabbing motions, (I should have ended my…)
the river ends, (I should have mended my…)
and brings you an ocean (I should have ended my…)
of hidden friends; (I should have mentioned my endless obsession
with counting the blessings of everyone I have watched die.)
calm and bloated.
In self-defence, I go through the motions.
Bleeding trails like a map of everywhere you’ve ever been,
seeping in from beyond the boundless fringe.
This cannot be sustained, or washed away.
You light yourself on fire in someone else’s car.
That’s how they get you.
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3. |
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I’m watched from on high, and the skyline is my skin.
I cannot wait to find out what your gallows weigh.
I’m washed and given insides of the finest leather trim.
I cannot stay to find out if the gallows sway.
Oh, where was I when the night fell in?
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4. |
Mania for Breaking
04:49
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With my mouth full of birds,
and having taken just the tonic,
I find the sky filled with my words;
painted in distances hobbled and haunted.
The way out is hidden from my view,
and my hands are soiled with my birth.
Spiralling backward, I’m drawn into where we all
are dead and nothing hurts.
This is your river but you’re drowning too.
The way down is hidden from my view.
The way out is given to me through you.
I would be found pacified, if I gave in to the mania
for breaking every part of you.
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5. |
Push the Blood Back in
15:47
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When the last bit of light that shines through
is dead and we are all matching shadows
with the same blank reflection,
distracted and withered and bound to the ceiling,
can you not even then, feel it move on your skin?
You can’t push the blood back in.
Crawl now to the river, but swear not to go in.
In the comfort of familiar sounds,
we pass, languid and half clotted,
through thin and coughing doors.
Our eyes tell no particular tale.
We are so vague and unsound.
Our unworn limbs will bleed the same
as the ones we left hanging around.
It’s a circular endeavour, for all time.
Having floundered and flourished, we come untied.
Our hands trace the peeled back paper walls,
and we become as corridors.
Your unborn friends will feed the same mouths
as the ones you left safe in the ground.
Crawl now to the river, but swear not to give in
to the comfort of familiar sounds.
When the last of the light shining through is dead,
and we are all matching shadows
of the same blank reflection, distracted and withered
and bored of the seasons, will you not, even then,
call them into your bed?
You can’t push the blood back in.
Put the blood back in.
Push the blood back in.
You can’t push the blood back in.
We pass, languid and half clotted,
through thin and coughing doors.
Our eyes tell no particular tale.
We are so vague and unsound.
It’s a circular endeavour for all time.
Having floundered and flourished, we come untied.
Our hands trace the peeled back paper walls,
and we become as corridors.
You can’t push the blood back in.
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