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1. |
Red Eyes
04:14
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catching eyes like headlights
in photographs
with the focus off,
your eyes burn red;
seem to beckon nearby sharks
that circle round and bear their teeth.
while making plans your father said,
“when away from land,
better watch for sharks” like me.
“stay close to safer shores and you may live longer.”
I rest my head on you.
long lives are better, right?
right.
as I sputter out these instructions
my lips get numb,
words get stuck,
having thoughts that matter
but I’m saying something else.
this ocean clouds.
it’s dark like man;
it darkens hands.
you’re setting traps in the form of questions when I come.
some say red eyes are caused by camera light,
but I know better than that.
you say that you’ll stay on safe shores behind closed doors.
just like your father wants,
your red eyes can fade out.
I rest my head on you.
I rest my hopes on you.
long lives are better, right?
right.
ignite that spark which resides inside you, behind your eyes.
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2. |
Gotham
03:49
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cold, getting colder, as night sets in on poor gotham, the unloved, gotham: the sad, sad city. poor gotham, the unsound, gotham: the stale town. hot, getting hotter, air is like water in poor gotham, the unloved, gotham: the sad, sad city. poor gotham, the unsound. gotham: the stale town.
(unloved lost souls move north when plans fold)
so now we’re taking off with schemes that cannot fail for some better days, for the weather. something dependable with a heart and pulse, where people aren’t pissed and life’s like honey. something more fruitful. we’re sick of rotting. waste, permanent wasteland full of dreams deferred. and if the new world disappoints us, we will build a comfortable cocoon or fly a rocket straight up to the stars.
oh, how I hope that it fulfills, because I’m no architect or astronaut. but still, we have to try for some better days…..
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3. |
On Trains
03:53
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the fat, shrieking toddlers;
their useless mothers; creeps who move in close. the rich, pampered white girls; the blathering gray suits on cell phones. all take the train home. the jabbering aliens, raising their voices. the thugs and hoods. infectious: the ugly and old. but the withered and bitter who’ve wasted their lives with lazy, closed minds-- they’re easier to stomach than the beautiful ghosts who flicker with life and hope.
because the purest ones are too hard to approach. this communication is not defensive, retaliatory. this is proactive, necessary. stay. just wait. stay. (passing splendor, come and heal this desert.)
and I’ll learn how to say three simple words: “what’s your name?”
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4. |
Numbers
04:07
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guess I’d miss riding these streets alone.
having time to think about the numbers
of my fading chances at love,
looking out at broken hearts as figures.
the solutions I’m waiting for,
well, the numbers don’t quite add up.
the numbers aren’t quite enough.
I spend nights with ghosts of friends
whose bodies have left them for warm beds.
I might waste this second chance,
which brings thoughts of sticking with the first one.
whatever I’m waiting for,
well the numbers don’t quite add up.
the numbers aren’t quite enough.
again.
are these streets ever going to run out?
breathe deep from an open mouth:
a release of the severed hearts cut from miles of cable.
somehow
the numbers aren’t quite enough
held by zeroes and ones
that don’t quite add up.
and if this is my chance at love
or my chance alone,
better just add it up
so I can figure out…
or should I just drive at night,
when all the turns seem to lead back to your door?
(should I just drive dark roads that wind?)
it’s getting old, overrun, no sleep yet.
this trip will never end.
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5. |
Exit Wound
03:26
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once again I mourn the loss of my friends.
but I jumped the gun:
everyone around me could determine the difference between the passions
except one.
gave up when the calendar hit “one.”
I thought they’d come to wrap arms around me.
(a zodiac has passed; a single relapse.)
they were silent, obstructive,
but all returned
except one.
what have we done?
during war, it seems there’s never time to play,
but we’ll explode like firecrackers and you won’t miss a thing.
so good luck
in a lonely old apartment built for one.
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6. |
Fear Level Orange
04:14
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shelters built from plans
bought from catalogs
meant to quell the fears I am told to have.
so far, no bombs.
but you won’t see me yet--
its not worth the risk.
I’m gonna wait it out.
stay tuned--
when we return from break:
who to be wary of,
and to protect yourselves
there’s some shit you’re gonna want.
this spaceship has most everything,
every perk and amenity.
doesn’t your family deserve the best?
and your safe passage is guaranteed!
somewhere in space we’ll reconvene.
we’ll sell you everything you need.
to change it all,
I need to get off the couch,
but my show is on.
I’m gonna wait it out.
(shotguns are hung up over every door on this block so you better watch out.)
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7. |
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the loneliness of bleeding
drains my soul
with nothing I can embrace in return.
the loneliness of building
breaks my back but comforts me for moments at a time.
I’d lift these thoughts from books and lay them into you.
(I wish you could eat my sadness.
take these words to cradle tenderly, absolve me from this solitude.)
I’d use an inkwell to mark a kiss upon your forehead
if I could meet you some night
where the light dims and plays tricks on the mind.
(every time you let down with silky bruises--
brown, black and red--
these colors smudge and blur your face.)
I’ve never seen the same face twice.
the loneliness of brooding
wastes my time and doesn’t help my writing to get read.
they say it happens quickly; never when expected.
and if I bleed enough,
someday you’ll know my name by the etchings in your side.
(you’ll know my name by the words you’ve taken inside your body
to cradle tenderly,
absolve me from this solitude) I’d use an inkwell to mark a kiss upon your forehead
if I could meet you some night
where the light dims and plays tricks on the mind.
(every time you let down with silky bruises--
brown, black and red--
these colors smudge and blur your face.)
I’ve never seen the same face twice.
to whom would it matter if I bled dry?
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8. |
I-95
03:47
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drove for miles in snow and ice
before I made it home.
but what matters are the thoughts left on dashboards
that go unremembered
like sidekicks of heroes who steal the show.
our forefathers of progress built this road
as a graveyard for mental notes.
so when spring becomes summer on drives north,
the leaves are blooming brown.
hands that shake and legs that burn
though your room is not far gone.
the engine cracks as I’m driving this coffin
that visits too often,
yet still fails to soften the guardrail’s blow.
and with sounds of an angel that I know
is the ambulance up the road.
but my thoughts spill from wounds that won’t close.
my legs are getting cold.
my arms become trees,
and my thoughts the leaves,
as my lungs stop breathing.
and you sign the release,
embracing it,
when my heart stops beating.
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9. |
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welcome back, its time to burn again for someone.
ignite it slow.
char quick.
months of hibernation, bitterly recorded:
a breath of life whispers from my lips.
we squeeze out the poems dripping from our fingers
and serve it up.
sell it to you.
but we’re sick of all the yearning, stumbling drunkards.
loneliness is the grifter’s tune.
so I traded in my love for a pen and paper.
I traded in my heart for a bigger one.
it’s trying to get out.
welcome back, its time to burn again for someone.
now blaze slow.
light swift.
object of affection, redefined by numbers.
and all along, lurking in my kiss.
we feed off of others snubbing intuition.
accept the task.
move on.
while you’re all typing letters, answering phone calls,
I’ll be here playing this song.
back to freeing up the flood.
this time for myself.
(split this chest open after the clouds have gone.)
give time to the beautiful,
the greater love:
the faceless.
it feels so good to pound these beats into your head,
to scatter impassioned words on your aimless path.
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10. |
Northeastern
03:26
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starting to call you on times when you’ve come undone.
I’ve been burned enough.
you’re making a judgment call.
battles that can’t be won,
and you can’t get off.
such a tragedy:
all that you’ve waited for
on your hands and knees.
faking is such a drag
between sheets that span for miles
where contentment lies.
the panic hides in cells.
and all of you can burn in hell
for breeding useless need.
what a tragedy:
waiting for you to call me,
and then hanging up.
you stand and wait
for me to break.
I stand and wait
for you to break.
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11. |
Eulogy
02:47
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dear old Mr. DesCartes,
what a sad mistake you’ve made
when all these animals weep,
punished by insensitivity.
and it’s more than just a programmed ploy.
something binds us closer than your God could ever bring us.
blessed be my words.
dear old Mr. Black,
how do you see through those cataracts?
it’s true you weren’t always kind,
but wickedness was beyond your grasp.
your dependency was tangible
as we explored that lilac garden together.
give it straight now:
tell me what you’re doing here.
oh well,
it doesn’t matter, friend.
in a few years you’ll be gone.
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Camilla New York, New York
Camilla is:
Evan Grove – Vocals, Guitars, Synths, Percussion, Banjo, Programming
Ethan Fixell – Vocals, Guitars, Percussion, Synths, Programming
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