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lyrics

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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