the beer bottles are boasting the butts of cigarettes, below the whimper of a winter wind in june. i'm smoking the heavy morning off my shoulders, as the sun drags away the purple afternoon. and the tower is heading up my celtic cross, drawing itself like a curtain o'er the moon. my om hums alone, smothered by my choking on innocence's exhaust in the living room. and this house smells like weed and wax cinnamon. as the splintered green lights sprays my face. snorting poorly cut pills through a wrinkled dollar bill, looking for an easy fuck or a tangible saint. this year i've spent clawing at my memory has left me a collection of skin blood and bone. and i don't know whose leg i think i'm tugging on; my fear is screaming louder than my soul. but the two of cups patiently collects the refuse from the depths of my weak weeping veins. the truth is that i had to cut off my feet to realize that i still had legs. she is the passion in an old hymn that i couldn't hear over the droning heads. but still i curse the snow and the proud teething cold as i shake inside the skin i once shed. she rolls over and kisses my head.
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