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View Full Version : How I don't know how to sing


Dude Beer
12-20-2008, 10:11 PM
I can barely play this thing,
But you never seem to mind,
And you tell me to fuck off,
When I need somebody to,
How you make me laugh so hard,
How whole years refuse to stay,
Where we told them to back off,
Locked up blindly in a word,
Or a misplaced souvenir,
How the past chews on your shoes,
And these memories lick my ear.

I know,
You might roll your eyes at this,
But I'm so,
Glad that you exist.

How we waste our precious time,
Marching in the picket line,
That surround those striking hearts,
And the time is never now,
And we know who we should love,
But we're never certain how.

I know,
You might roll your eyes at this,
But I'm so,
Glad that you exist.

I know,
You might roll your eyes at this,
But I'm so,
Glad that you exist.

I know,
You might roll your eyes at this,
But I'm so,
Glad that you exist.

Dude Beer
12-20-2008, 10:12 PM
http://www.qsrmagazine.com/articles/ones_to_watch/116/graphics/zacks.jpg

chunk
12-21-2008, 12:32 AM
It had something to do with the rain leeching loamy dirt
And the way the back lane came alive, half moon whispered "go"
For a while, I heard you missing steps in the street
And your anger pleading in an uncertain key
Singing the sound of you that you found for me

When the winter took the tips of my ears
Found this noisy home full of pigeons and places to hide
And when the voices die, I emerged to watched abandoned machines
Waiting for their men to return, I remember the way
I would wait for you to arrive with kibble and a box full of beer
How I'd scratch the empties desperate to hear
You make the sound that you found for me

After scrapping with the ferals and the tabby,
Let you brush my matted fur
How I'd knead into your chest while you were sleeping
Shallow breathing made me purr

But I can't remember the sound that you found for me
I can't remember the sound that you found for me
I can't remember the sound

antimarc
01-28-2009, 02:26 AM
Headlights race towards the corner of the dining room, and half illuminate a face before they disappear. You breathe in forty years of failing to describe a feeling. I breathe out smoke against the window, trace the letters in your name.

Our letters sound the same; full of all our changing that isn't change at all. All straight lines circle sometime.

You said somewhere there's a box full of replacement parts to all the tenderness we've broken or let rust away. Somewhere sympathy is more than just a way of leaving. Somewhere someone says, "I'm sorry... someone's making plans to stay."

So tell me it's okay. Tell me anything, or show me there's a pull, unassailable, that will lead you there, from the dark, alone, benevolence that you've never known, or you knew when you were four and can't remember. Where a small knife tears out those sloppy seams, and the silence knows what your silence means, and your metaphors (as mixed as you can make them) are linked, like days, together.

I still hear trains at night, when the wind is right. I remember everything. Lick and thread this string that will never mend you or tailor more than a memory of a kitchen floor, or the fire door that we kept propping open. And I love this place - the enormous sky, and the faces/hands that I'm haunted by, so why can't I forgive these buildings, these frameworks labeled "home"?