1. |
Dig Those Heels
02:17
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I always think like breathing through a pillow
I bite the bullet to give my mind a shove
Let's hide our pills under our tongues;
let's make a great show of swallowing.
In Quiet Hours we will lead the catatonics,
tease revolutions out from their graves,
make them dance 'till the irony is chronic
(Lockdown!)
in the ballroom, our legs go on for days.
Well, don't call me easy;
I'm dragging in the dirt
like the dog I am.
Don't be so proud of your mongrel past:
you could be thoroughbred for all they care,
you're still a bitch to them.
O! Brother when they come for us,
rip out my larynx with a fratricidal chorus!
We're gonna dig those heels.
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2. |
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Sixty watts watched me
examine my breath in a backyard,
in the year New England failed to recall
that it was March and not May
that came a lion and left a lamb
and let fog unwind the lace cobweb of life
under the 4 AM halogen moon.
Melt an embrace
over my moccasin moves and dog calls.
They were arabesques and soliloquies,
respectively, sung legato
to the matron seraphim of
Lonely lovers with the coldest hands
taste low tide on the navy sands,
and she and Muse are sisters, mute
in adolescent fury and jealousy.
She hums just above an engine.
Sophomoric aural embargoes
weigh heavy cargo on my soul,
who cuts when he thinks I'm asleep.
But I know better,
because I only cry when I mean it.
She hums just above an engine,
and she leads beneath the sheets.
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3. |
MEDIC!
02:35
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I have transferred
Due to scalpel fights
in the O.R.
“Doctor, doctor, I keep losing my patients!”
Abra-cadaver:
we’ve failed him now
and we’re bleedin for a flatline, fellas.
“Well don’t inoculate ‘till you try it.”
All the gashes in their sashes
and the dicks in their trenchcoats:
“Leave your mops at home!”
Hospitalez-vous?
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4. |
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I spit up sky
with your pretty machine next to mine.
In the presence of the present,
we spoke about the past.
In the presence of the present,
behind our future’s back.
Darling, I’m not sure I can.
With libel as a bible,
it was wholly unsettling:
grown from bad seeds sown in spring,
sunshine-shy and soaked in sin.
She said, “breathe, my sweet,
won’t you taste this air with me?
All bitterness has sunk into the ground
and held your torso silently,
like gravity (who always brings the party)
but all the other flowers are passed out in the grass,
and I know you’re better than that.”
Darling, I’m not sure I am.
And I don’t have the lungs for your type of talking.
A stumble feels just like a run to us.
When one of us leaves, it feels just like a blade to us.
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The Lido Venice Boston, Massachusetts
5 hardcore, punk, and indie kids played folk + post-punk in 2004, sometimes in weird time signatures.
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