curled up in the shade of a billboard, we saw the flag waving over the town. it looked more like a miss city sash draped over a hospice gown. but we slept our way through the protest. then sat around and pissed our poetry to each others' tired choir ears, about how this city never gave us anything. and sometimes i still hear your wars songs muttering in the treble of a train's howl. and swearing at the viscid gold grass. but i hear you feel a little more free now. all the bowed heads and blindfold smiles shattered your certainty and harrowed your heart. we sipped cold coffee as you cussed your way out of the pale light of a flickering god. so i found a plastic shaman, ear candles. you found yourself an amber bottled cure. you said you move a little quicker now out of the syrupy sunlight and the cowboys' slurs. but sometimes i still hear your war songs in the spiderwebbing cracks of moloch's windows. we've both found love and shreds of sound peace. but part of me is still scared we'll both die alone. so i walk the salted sidewalks to the bar. i assume that you're somewhere doing the same. though we try to draw long deep lines, we've always surrendered to the same sorbent ache.
Introspective pop songs with transcendent melodies offer a joyful meditation on staying present in a world that often moves too fast. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 16, 2023