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about

Recorded by Eric Thiermann.
Cover Photograph by Danielle Brennan

lyrics

The Melody of a Rose

We will send a barrage of sleeping dump trucks
against the entrance to twilight,
barge in,
bleed it dry of color,
refuse to leave,
and then ask its forgiveness.

We will wear dining room tables on our backs,
spend all day in the kitchen,
cook a feast,
and feed ten thousand hobos.

We will ask an oak tree to touch its toes,
wash the tired feet of an ambulance driver,
perfume the neck of imagination,
become best friends with smiling,
make love in the streets,
push misery to the floor,
sit on its chest
and teach it tenderness.

We will wrist watch the time man
until his pace-maker becomes a heart.

You,
you have a smile that breaks sunsets in half,
causes my heart to origami itself every time.

You surprised me,
reminded me that i have a body,
awoke me from a great slumber,
and now i can’t possibly sleep anymore
and it feels so good to come awake.

So kiss me,
while polar bears drown,
and politicians circus themselves,
and bullets carry names unwarranted to death.
While youth still beats in these bodies,
kiss my lips,
that love may decorate every word i speak from them.
Spell for me the words that this world is forgetting
As daily we hear history’s thunder
in the false skies that have been built.
I will set my glasses to my eye
so that I may make out the many barrels
of the many guns that are being pointed.
The smoke is rising like ghosts

And none can say how much time is left.

In the unwinding black of dawn
the horses are screaming.
We hunch low,
lean forward,
backs straight,
knees grasping,
and the horizon advances so close
we can see the hilt of its knife.
The swan dive moment kisses the bottom,
caresses our collar bones,
and leaves us reeling,
hallucinating music,
thinking about the color blue
as though falling a great distance,
from a great height
where up is not a direction,
but an emotion,
and the sky is nothing
but a color you recognize
inside the moments before you fall to sleep.

And you,
you are snow,
a claw-foot bathtub,
bullet shells.

The storm above glows a soft violet
we are breaking off our footsteps behind us.
As I reach for your hand,
I ask where we are going,
and you smile
and say to me
that we have always walked in these woods
we just haven’t remembered yet
and as the clouds part you point to the moon
and my body gets that gentle, slow feeling
like all my blood has just turned to honey inside my veins.

And the rain,
the rain,
when it finally falls,
it never makes a sound.

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Shimmy Boyle Oakland, California

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