1. |
White silk
01:28
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Like white silk slipping through a loop hole, repression comes easy in the shape of a solo show urinal. I live in a gallery of moving pictures and their static frames keep me sane at least enough to say so. But when I doze I go toe to toe with my violent dreams.
They want to beat a pulp. And like a dog I quiver before the wilderness of myself.
I have made my bed in the wrong – now, to set it on fire and lie in it. Another puzzler trying to get their shit together in the agony and hope of forever learning to live broken.
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2. |
Owled in the night grass
02:51
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Old pope on the lope, caught between gulley slope. God damn damn this god. Sit ginger in the moss, chew my ginger root and loss. And by dark this holdout will bear no shape or movement at all.
And I'll be owled in the night grass, bowelled by a beast for my years of trespass. The heirs of the screech of air shows have come into their evil own. I cast all my darlings like boomerangs so they'd come back, but now my hand trembles at the prospect of what I am to catch.
And my chemicals are speaking, and I fumble the bumbling representative. And the pundits and their words are washing like useless waves on the shore and the construction cranes are creaking their last legs for one tower more. And my chemicals are reaching, but here underwater sound comes only as groaning icebergs. And I grind my teeth like tectonics against daggers in the dark, and all my empire's armies are defecting like behested leaves to the fall. And my chemicals are screaming, but I hang around helpless in orbit.
And I just get what's coming to me in the night grass.
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3. |
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Men in trucks are patrolling the valley. Men in trucks are patrolling the valley. Need eagle eyes to find clear purchase on your friend's party. And some folks move with the ease of water, some folks move with their easels and ease of images, living product to product, to and from the castle.
They paint pictures of a body in motion. Picture of a body in motion: no graduation moment to moment, I try to hold it...
But when my pawnish pawnish pawnish imagination shrinks smaller smaller smaller than the fist of my stomach I guess I guess I'll eat my rage's hat for supper at Subway again.
Took a note from the clearcut Calvinist tome on how to build a home. Felt the paper on my finger, felt the scalp of the mountain, but nothing on how to grow back what's been printed. And Owen hoards all wisdom for the pulpit, enslaves the future to his four year silences, digging deep trench lines of civil society stagnation.
While the punks burn pictures washed up by this ocean. Pictures of a body in motion. No graduation moment to moment, I try to hold it...
But when my pawnish pawnish pawnish imagination shrinks smaller smaller smaller than the fist of my stomach I guess I'll eat my rage's hat for supper at Subway again.
Kingdom goes on so far from king's intention. Justice rides by in a high carriage while we live and die in the lowlands. And the butterflies lick your eyes for dew and I wilt all my flowers waiting in lines to deliver to you.
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4. |
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The guillotine is a labour of love. The guillotine is a labour of love. Mom, I brought all my revolution home. I swore to sit and house my fists into a slim white, white glove. It chafed; it sparked; the house caught fire, and now I sit with it.
I was hanging up at the slaughterhouse of forgiveness. I was holding shape in the clear eyes of another. So my eyes gave back shapes, surrender the keys to my crumbling city. All my life's darlings shall go willing to this rig, and sit with it.
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5. |
Sugarplum homecoming
02:23
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The orchards are all on fire. The smoke is sweet and stinging. I know the passion of this, even this feeling is shackled after in ashes to the mushroom picker's gentle singing.
I played my youth's hand: it was not very good. I just washed it out for a while by the ocean. And back along the roadside with angled thumb I met so many men bathing in the boggy pools of their ambiguity.
And like fine wine they held the fine line between sophistication and murder until the final moment.
The present is a poltergeist: it can't move on. Its repertoire an endless bag of old tricks vomiting by the dawn. And from the happy valley no one truly comes or goes, owners just slow bulldoze plots, crying, "All of this, all of this is mine!"
And on borrowed time, father needs to unwind as Judgment burns this shithole down and the fruit of his labours comes undone so easily.
The orchards are all on fire. The smoke is sweet and stinging. I know the passion of this, even this feeling is shackled after in ashes to the mushroom picker's gentle singing.
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6. |
Wishing wells
05:41
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Another useless pilgrimage to the place where I was born. Good is gold unhad just past the guard rail. It's a good lost found, it's a good pond lost.
Funnel me suss and close like a swallow to my old house. Wishing well will that shape into house recognition because if not known now it will not be known still. And so: still.
And here I lost my passport. Kneed in the spitting ink, if purple is pain I'm a plumbox, hold my bruises in as time gets away on a suspension bridge in disguise.
Say plod and plod, and prod for some clear water's conjuring. But this ground is ever-plunging desert, I'm anachronistic, a judge gaveling sandcastles for his judgment's ache.
Here I lost my passport. Kneed in the spitting ink, if purple is pain I'm a plumbox, hold my bruises in as time gets away on a suspension bridge in disguise.
I used to think about it all more. Now wants to say that the garden let leaves just go, but one can never really know that sound. The future is a bad bad scene, it wants to forget. But if all goes to plan I will grow to be an old white man sitting in the sand of all that he couldn't hold in his two hands, and okay with it. Am I okay with it? As I dance and shake and I dance and I shake, and I can't keep still and I can't keep still, and intuition crashes my structuralist ride and whips me with my own lines into new shapes, same breathes. New shapes, same breathes.
And here I lost my passport. Kneed in the spitting ink, if purple is pain I'm a plumbox, hold my bruises in as time gets away on a suspension bridge in disguise.
"And all you have is what you are and what you give..."
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7. |
This year's punks
02:56
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This year's punks - not so different from last year's punks. Still fodder for cheap shots by more stabler ones. Past selves scratch themselves. What did daddy have to do in the name and the naming of you? My man is a pillar, my man is a salt pillar in a world of pillar-splitting drone strikes, and each new year he wanders these grounds with a metal detector.
What buried lost thing is he after?
This year's punks will become next year's hopeless clairvoyants, hatching russian doll prophecies like robin eggs robbed for someone else's lunch. Meanwhile I - I get by, wipe my mouth dry, skip some stones into the deep blue audience. Singing, "what beach is this? What troll keeps this bridge I have been passing over?"
"And what community will I leave after?"
Prophecy don't pay - prophecy don't pay its yearly union dues.
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8. |
Power creep
02:20
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So I have a permanent address. Came for what the red sea parted open, stayed because it folded after passing. Been making a milling off of delivering myself naked to these old dominion pedestals as if displaying powerlessness was the same as smashing shit.
But what the fuck am I creeping for this time of night, opening and closing strangers' doors? Am I rowing my life away on this dinghy of success, moored to the drowned hulks of my excess? Just as well to sell as to be silent beholden, but in this economy speech shall be the stick in the spoke of a rigged wheel of fortune.
It's stretching to see myself as constellation, but there I am so often: a series of escalating compromises, a pattern of out-of-grasp fragmentations. In this way I got stuck in a door frame I don't quite fit through, fucked the view from either room, so tried homemaking with thresholds but just became another gallery gatekeeper.
So is this how our proud boy failed up, clutching at every in-sight summit? Is every crack in the cement a republic waiting to be declared by an opportune man? I confess and confess, but this guilt is what carries my breathe.
What the fuck am I creeping for this time of night, opening and closing strangers' doors? Am I rowing my life away on this dinghy of success, moored to the drowned hulks of my excess? Just as well to sell as to be silent beholden, but in this economy speech shall be the stick in the spoke of a rigged wheel of fortune.
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9. |
I'll find patterns
02:36
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I'll find patterns, read tarot cards, and pluck flowers from the back alleyways. So the rain's tapered, so release them dovers, and see what stays and goes from me.
But when we're all laid out on the line to dry, it takes time.
And when the city's slow suicide pressures, and on the steps a man's getting battered, and another panic attack in the subway station passes me by... I don't want to assign embodiment to a sign. Sisyphus been tracing a thousand homecomings soft on my back.
And when we're all laid on the line to dry, it takes time. Time, time, time. Sisyphus if nothing else notches time. I've been doing laundry in the river of time.
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10. |
Conestoga cold storage
03:40
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Mapping the frozen floor of Conestoga Cold Storage. Lost in the desert of the greater Toronto transit system. Locked in a two-hundred year rut, how's your frustrated Anglican crabwalk? How's your wasteland of Wasteland-like poetry, undead? Cruelty nudges closer, with fewer options at fate's auction. Communing with emptiness in a parking lot, communing with emptiness in a parking lot.
Call a meeting: pepper some rhyme to a world of unreason. Maybe you can't break the curse of signification, but you can move in slow motion. So even if it takes a week just to reach for the telephone, call yourself back from the dead. Call yourself back from the dead.
We got robbed on the road. In turn we clubbed a kid for his clothes. In turn he'll find someone weaker to hose. You see: that's how it goes, you lean into how the roundabout flows and you keep your eyes closed to what you inherit on the road, and lick your stamps and seal and send off your letters of hope to the future and you hope that they get where they need to go, but you cannot follow for lo: you have grown so very old.
But call a meeting: pepper some rhyme to a world of unreason. Maybe you can't break the curse of signification, but you can move in slow motion. So if it takes a week just to reach for the telephone, call yourself back from the dead. Call yourself back from the dead.
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11. |
Tubefeet half-landings
02:15
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Poetry, prose - whatever gets you from your rocking chair scribbling a manifesto to live with yourself. It's a delicate route to graceful irrelevance while you're burning alive at the trial by fire.
And you got the shakes and you know the taste of hours of screened vacant ventures. You've got an unfinished play, an unspeakable rage against the ceiling of gold chandeliers lighting your stage.
And yeah whatever, Marigold's lost her spark working nights for the sunrise. Yeah whatever, all colours are tried and untrue, but the paint's on the canvas - what shapes will you make before it dries on you?
The moon is mysterious and ancient, you can also wear it as a gorgeous charm. The body is a money lender's temple, you can feed your family hawking its old men's secrets.
And all under the sun deals get done and time runs out like water to the gutters. And all under the sun the best of us come undone, scheming unique ways to squirm under that big yellow thumb.
Yeah whatever, Marigold's lost her spark working nights for the sunrise. Yeah whatever, your skill is tried and untrue, but the paint's on the canvas - what shapes will you make before it dries on you?
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