1. |
Heaven
01:54
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In Heaven
Everything is fine
In Heaven
Everything is fine
You got your good thing
And I've got mine
In Heaven
Everything is fine
You got a your good thing
And you've got mine
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2. |
Green Flames
02:59
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I first seem them loudly approaching descending numerous green stairs pass by look away cram in a small space while gradually hardening into a mound their movement makes waves of light furrow through the wheat field a thick overflowing fluid makes it impossible to stir the woodlands larch with short hair snail that paints carefully a spider spins electric wires like a mist everything rotates from green to deeper green they are inside the milk bottle on the kitchen table are reflected crouching with their faces flattened sliding around an apple they seem to crumble as they block off shafts of light in the street a blind girl plays by ducking under the shadows of the sun’s rings
I hurry to shut the window danger has come right up to me a fire blazes outside the beautifully burning green flames spread high, circling he outskirts of the earth and in the end they dwindle, disappear as a single thin line of the horizon
My weight takes leave of me takes me back to the depths of oblivion people are crazy here there is no point in feeling sorrow nor in speaking their eyes are dyed green believing grows uncertain and looking enrages me
Who blindfolds me from behind? Shove me into sleep.
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3. |
Red Stains
01:48
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In a pyloned desert where the scorpion reigns
My love and I plucked poppies breathing tales
Of crimes now long asleep, whose once–red stains
Dyed stabbing men, at sea with bloody sails.
The golden sand drowsed. There a dog yelped loud;
And in his cry rattled a hollow note
Of deep uncanny knowledge of that crowd
That loved and bled in winy times remote.
The poppies fainted when the moon came wide;
The cur lay still. Our passionate review
Of red wise folly dreamed on . . . She by my side
Stared at the Moon; and then I knew he knew.
And then he smiled at her; to him ’twas funny—
Her calm steel eyes, her earth–old throat of honey!
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4. |
For Love
03:36
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Yesterday I wanted to
speak of it, that sense above
the others to me
important because all
that I know derives
from what it teaches me.
Today, what is it that
is finally so helpless,
different, despairs of its own
statement, wants to
turn away, endlessly
to turn away.
If the moon did not ...
no, if you did not
I wouldn’t either, but
what would I not
do, what prevention, what
thing so quickly stopped.
That is love yesterday
or tomorrow, not
now. Can I eat
what you give me. I
have not earned it. Must
I think of everything
as earned. Now love also
becomes a reward so
remote from me I have
only made it with my mind.
Here is tedium,
despair, a painful
sense of isolation and
whimsical if pompous
self-regard. But that image
is only of the mind’s
vague structure, vague to me
because it is my own.
Love, what do I think
to say. I cannot say it.
What have you become to ask,
what have I made you into,
companion, good company,
crossed legs with skirt, or
soft body under
the bones of the bed.
Nothing says anything
but that which it wishes
would come true, fears
what else might happen in
some other place, some
other time not this one.
A voice in my place, an
echo of that only in yours.
Let me stumble into
not the confession but
the obsession I begin with
now. For you
also (also)
some time beyond place, or
place beyond time, no
mind left to
say anything at all,
that face gone, now.
Into the company of love
it all returns.
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5. |
wash your mouth
03:51
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(She cried when she found it.
It's feathers were matted and pressed to its side.
It's wings were no longer able.
Still she begged it to fly.
It's body as frail as paper and wet from her tears.
She knelt in the damp grass praying it to heaven.
Gently pressing its head to her heart.
Its body as frail as paper and wet from her tears.
She knelt in the damp grass praying it to heaven.
Gently pressing its head to her heart.
The sun slips so we dance upon the image nonetheless.
The sun slips so we danced nonetheless)
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6. |
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voices to voices, lip to lip
I swear (to noone everyone) constitutes
undying; or whatever the and that petal confutes…
to exist being a peculiar form of sleep
what’s beyond logic happens beneath will;
nor can these moments be translated: i say
that even after April
by God there is no excuse for May
—bring forth your flowers and machinery: sculpture and prose
flowers and guess and miss
machinery is the more accurate, yes
it delivers the goods, Heaven knows
(yet are we mindful, though not as yet awake,
of ourselves which shout and cling, being
for a little while and which easily break
in spite of the best overseeing)
I mean that the blond absence of any program
except last an always an first to live
makes unimportant what i and you believe;
not for philosophy does this rose give a damn…
bring on your fireworks, which are a mixed
splendor of piston and of pistil; very well
provided an instant may be fixed
so that it will not rub, like any other pastel.
(While you and i have lips and voices which
are for kissing and to sing with
who cares if some annoyed son of a bitch
invents an instrument to measure Spring with?
each dream nascitur, is not made…)
why then to Hell with that: the other, this
since the thing perhaps is
to eat flowers and not to be afraid
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7. |
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To lie back under the tallest oldest trees. How far the stems rise, rise before ribs of shelter open!
To live in the mercy of God. The complete sentence too adequate, has no give. Awe, not comfort. Stone, elbows of stony wood beneath lenient moss bed.
And awe suddenly passing beyond itself. Becomes a form of comfort. Becomes the steady air you glide on, arms stretched like the wings of flying foxes. To hear the multiple silence of trees, the rainy
forest depths of their listening.
To float, upheld, as salt water would hold you, once you dared. To live in the mercy of God. To feel vibrate the enraptured waterfall flinging itself unabating down and down to clenched fists of rock.
Swiftness of plunge, hour after year after century, O or Ah, uninterrupted, voice many-stranded.
To breathe spray. The smoke of it. Arcs of steelwhite foam, glissades of fugitive jade barely perceptible. Such passion— rage or joy? Thus, not mild, not temperate, God’s love for the world. Vast flood of mercy flung on resistance.
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8. |
Large Sleep
02:19
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“This would be a fine place to die,” I think as I sit slightly reclined in the passenger seat of my roommates sedan when it is supposedly 68 degrees but feels much chillier with the window down and music that I am not familiar with but enjoying as I attempt to gauge the size and distance of vehicles based only on sound with my eyes closed, “better than most”. I won’t go back home to drink and work on schoolwork and maybe go to the bar I won’t have any future won’t even get to read the books I bought today but it’s fine. I imagine not imagining any future setting, neither returns nor excursions just a fade to black here where I’m at.
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9. |
An Old Song
02:56
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The black-winged gull
of love is flying-
hurl of the waters
futile might!
Tirelessly
his deft strokes plying
he skims free in the licking
waves’ despite
There is no lying
to his shrill mockery
of their torment
day or night
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10. |
Blindspot
04:18
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Logic would dictate that my teeth
should be rasped to blunt instruments
but they’re so sharp in there
cutting up my mouth
scraping against soft tissue
fondling each other longingly
I and what I do are symptoms
not causally related to each other, no
but to a third term
what kind of rooms exist in the world
I visit homes to find out
don’t care about your personality
walking at night in fall
the privilege of feeling both cold and hot
leave me in one spot long
I will create the necessary mess
put a sweater on me
pull it over you a little bit
to fuck with absence
the inexorability of circumstance
that denies me things
in heaven everything is fine
you’ve got your good thing
I lost mine
I have constantly been traveling twice the distance
to end up at the same place
if not in direct facsimile than in simulation
I see the cat we bought
I am not laundering anything
and I will not before I leave
messages are sent and received equivocally
regardless of content
My dreams are much more interesting anyway
and I remember them more or less to the extent
that I’d rather stay in them every morning that I wake up.
In heaven everything is fine
you’ve got your good thing
I lost mine
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Vera Cruise Minneapolis, Minnesota
I also make music at painritualmn.bandcamp.com
fuck fascism
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