1. |
Black Elk
02:52
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Roses sang
weeds answered
through it all
you kept your stamina
though you kept stark
through the storm
I saw you wilt-
In a pure unselfish sacrifice,
you clipped your own wings
When an eagle falls
the sum of the sky shakes
And upon his impact
the entire earth quakes
The spirit of the pheonix is well alive
Only through you, it survived
Why is it that:
the thought of the end pinches us
and in a startled stupor we
check our ripeness, as if the juices
squeezed would pour onto the floor
at any moment.
we entertain the game that we must-
somehow- guard and collect them with our gourds
as if each drop can not be absorbed by the soil.
such time we spend in this frantic feat
that the seeds never take and the moisture never creeps
to the dirt
remember: we’ll collapse.
and spill the chalice of our fruited life
caught only to become a fruitless toil.
Why then do we not,
let the pulp drop.
Bend down and build a mound,
so a new tree will sprout
or erupt.
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2. |
Locks
03:46
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What was I to do? My plug couldn’t fit us both. And it kills me to think it fit you when I can barely hold my own. But as you pulled my chain, the liquid began to drain so I pulled back, preventing a full collapse.
It hurt, I know. Those empty eyes, torn heart with past rips you’ve tried so hard to close, and fuck, I was the next knife.
But nothing, not even water, is as good a conductor as the space between our faces before they connect with a seismic impact. The distance, which is enough to hold an ocean filled with the souls of every homesick lover that there floats, be it only a moment or the way our spirits softly sail amidst through the ever closing gate of our lips and thus began their dark journey, despite the sea. I don’t know how it is that our breath can be our lighthouse, somehow signaling through the mist and locking our lips. Perfect, fitting, fleeting, such is that the magnet in my forehead moves to yours, dipping my head like a crane to stream, flicking out eyes, finishing the circuit and new blue sparks of electric electricity roll me you you me; nothing not even water is as good a conductor.
But it’s so hard to turn your already tattered key in a rusted jagged lock you can’t force it, it’ll break. Just whisper soft through the keyhole words of truth from the soul blanketed by sheets in the summers soggy heat.
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3. |
Nightcrawlers
04:47
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our lives are
blindly crawling- open sores
over cold cracked concrete
make faint footprints, and attempt mapping
of the height,length,width,cracks,crevices-
the walls and the floors, but never fully sure:
just more reaching, stumbling as
if there would be a light switch or a door-
there are only
wind-swept whispers from far corners
and yelling in return, both parties trying to learn
if the other is real-
but Death:
the eventual stumbling over the
edge of the room- forever
falling: unconscious (though never
fully aware) into sense-deprived
nothingness;
shows his facetious face
and all is lost- aside from the
delicate, frantic art left by yearnful
years of dragging through the dark.
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4. |
Rosa Far
02:46
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In this world of either or we drag toward the other door.
Beyond the vanity of latex stretched tight across human flesh, there is so much more buried beneath immaculate faces and bleached white teeth.
The gloss, carved peak is all that is showing of this iceberg sunk low, hiding with the power to sink an entire ship but only showing a reluctant tip.
Forced behind grief, stained clouded walls, we breathe deep on the glass and draw desperate messages ever traced of love despite isolated fate.
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