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lyrics

“apollo! patron saint! i need you and your muses to explain:
i am told that the poems don’t love us anymore, but who really gives a flying fuck?”
“the teething youth and poor man’s truth with whom rhyme and metaphor still resonate and bear fruit, though it’s so ripe it’s to the point of rotten— that’s who!”

“can these brave recruits save this sinking ship?”
“there’s not a hope in hell.”
“i just hope they can swim.”
“they sing aboard the ship: ‘i was left trampled in the streets of bull ravaged pamplona; fucked beyond belief, i came up spitting poetry. my brother lied down dead in a cold hospital bed, but i made his spirit rise and want to celebrate it.’”

“they can sing all they want, but the dead won’t dance to their petty songs.”
“come on now!”
“don’t you see? i blame them for the cynics spitting blood from the cheap seats— with dicks in hand— who
understand that everyone in the theatre is getting off to the show.”
“imagine that! you were like them too, you know?
don’t forget those lines you wrote: ‘i am the last ragged breath that dances through your body, singing, “the war is over, the war is over!” to the duly martyred dead. i fucked the afterlife to see if she was really right for me. poor girl was terrified; her fear went unrequited.

“destroyer, please, just listen to the poets pray:
dear god, save us from this sinking ship!"

“that’s just coward’s talk. it’s a bloody shame,
after such a storm of hostility, to be so caught up in your sympathy for the poets drowning in defeat.”
“no, dear god, it’s not what it seems to be.
they’ve been floating there now for centuries,
fighting off fatigue and depravity
while their god gambled with the fates."
“as their limbs get tired and lose urgency
they will gasp for breath, come to taste the sea
slowly slipping under—”
“till human voices wake them and they rise;
but they will rise.”

credits

from spit smoke, black factories., released June 10, 2009

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