1. |
Snow white poetry
03:15
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Snow white poetry writes itself dry clean. And in the evening’s aching glass infinite reflection, I will live so quietly. Observe the birds, mourn my parents. Avoid the eyes of their bequeathed wall portrait of the queen. Gutted all the song from my dreams, now in a vacuum I just imitate the Scream:
Went to wordlessness and back for these words. Drinking thirst from a bottomless cup.
And snow white poetry kills itself every night to be born again daily. In this way I shall bear no history. Just float easily across city and field, and through black holes I will yield: every emptiness into a song, every guitar neck into something to strangle. Ride these limping chords to a marketplace and sell myself to ever new angles of that age-old shapelessness:
Going to wordlessness and back for some words. Drinking thirst from a bottomless cup.
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2. |
Jean jacket
03:39
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All I want is a jean jacket. Thrift store artifact, sweet patches across my back. A denim life raft to have and to hold against an ocean of horror. But if I can just look okay maybe I’ll feel okay about all that’s killing me.
All I want is to write this song. Fast forward to applause, validate my lost cause. Puke down the well just let it go, one cup emptied to fill another. But if I can sputter to the end of this spell maybe I can for a moment conjure something that seems a little better than me.
And all I want is somebody at my side, positioned between myself and the mirror so that I appear invisible. To absorb, deflect and to feed me, and dissociate from the act of living in this body. But if I can just tear the old temple down maybe I can shape some new space where there’s no room for god to curse me.
Slayer patches, Misfits patches, red squares, anarchist flags, "I <3 HATERS" belts... I've got a million fucking signifiers of my critical capabilities. But I just stand or sit here in my jean jacket. These days I just dissociate in my jean jacket.
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3. |
Sinking into swamp
01:19
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I go out: Queen Street. I’ve never been a part of such a large gentrifying effort before. I zone my realities, scaffold my abysses, perform helpless witness. I can barely imagine myself in this place. Storefronts, elevators, cynicism, vertigo. I’ve been scheming like fucking Iago.
But will I cry abuse when my house with no address sinks into the swamp? Am I moving through it? Moving like a limping Lazarus and the born again half-life exodus, fucking myself up at every re-branding party between here and last hope on the horizon’s infinite futility?
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4. |
Song about whitehorse
03:55
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Bless these barren gravel lots beside the ark-like condo monoliths on the riverside. Let them in my mind never be developed. For though the wetdreams of developers are erected on drownings, old place will never bear a trace of the whims of human valueings. The truth is this: emptiness persists indiscriminately. And from basements to churches to museums, all worship wastes in waiting for some sunken boat.
While all our shit and our gold live on the same riverbank, this side of oblivion.
"And this building used to be, this building used to be..." This town is a landmined landscaped of body memory. And like some useless tool paned against its vast gaping riddle, I walk by the movie theatre, I walk by the hospital incinerator. And with photograph’s poise nothing can exist for itself here. Drowning in the taste of snow, I will get no closer than this to the heart of this labyrinth.
And all my shit and all my gold is still heaped up on this riverbank, this side of oblivion.
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5. |
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In my father’s new glass house a bathroom drawer is filled with soap. And he comes and goes, he comes and he goes, clean and lost. But dad, no thing holds us: we’re two tattoos aging on flesh in the war between bodies and signs. We try to sneak some sacred thing past death.
And but the stoics gotta surrender. And oh, I’ll lay my head down on the town altar.
And walking home is so many blank spaces. Modern horror like a passerby’s eyes holding away from my recognition. But can you imagine the abysses inside of the federal building? Some bastards bid everything on these shitty scribbles and scaffolding.
And but the stoics gotta surrender. And oh, I’ll lay my head down on the town altar.
And give it up. Give it up. Give it up…
O repression repression! Another missed connection! Another couple years shivering out the shoulder seasons. And all of my useless comforts, all of my comfortless cruises. They chafe like a metal hallway, a tourniquet on my imagination.
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6. |
Tattoo
04:09
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I will get my first tattoo. Draw blood from my palm and press it to the palm of the tempter of fruit. There: we’re married now to whatever next ensues. Tried so long to melt my heart, tried so long to melt my heart down to gold. But just some old thing endlessly folded, it’s time to bury hope and fill that grave with concrete.
I will get my first tattoo. Seal my stake living in this world of signs and dust with you. Aleph scribed to flesh to re-make the world with word: “FIRST TATTOO.” But now I’ve said, is there a point to do what I do? Oh, what do I do?
Cross this threshold, cross this threshold. I will get my second tattoo, I will get my third tattoo, etc.
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