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Future Islands 

Painstaking, brutal
Human metaphor
Stretched black
White bold
Against the New York
Currency sky
Beauty in the balding
Growl voice,
Blood money burner
New, New, new
Emperor
Of the things I can be
Will be
…hope to become
5:45
July 28th
Two thousand, seventeen

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Show Alone

24, in a crowd staring down that new adrenaline
Era of punk releasing amp deaf riot on generation (fuck the letter)
Why has it been so hard to coax $12 out of friends to take part?
It’s turbulent in my psyche, I’m sure I’ll never get it
At least sure as fuck that I hope not
Things are passive for people, easily avoided in favor of a night of rest
Meanwhile future biographers contemplate suicide as they try to find something beyond sleep and solitude to enliven the success of man
It’s too young in this life to grow old, maturity is a poison noun that emboldens the risk averse with a sense of pride in their cowardice
I’ve come to learn that breathing fire will always burn the tongue
And it should
For how else will you remember the taste when you set your patch of earth ablaze
Ignited from your core, to light an effigy to every coming moment of your existence
So fuck it if you can’t come
In the end,
maybe you never had the spark to take part

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Sweet Jesus, Crucify Your Heathen Boy

Vibe children, great defeaters of the pestilence
Cruise movers, street sweeping the mundane
Lock into the sound mash, light blitz frenzy
I remember
The Bible talk of the chosen
Bullshit
Sanctify the willing
In the dying rain of unquenched, longing lips, the empty bucket of the deserving
Find me tossing rocks at the abyss
Listening…
For echoes, not answers

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Present Tense Priest

Sweet sound devil of our Thursday sacrilege
Lure me, lost in this crowd of turpentine misadventures
Away from the impending, bright-poison shackles of morning
Movement, pulsing, movement
Under the fade dream fantasy of your hologram-halo altar
Stainglass that once refracted light on our imperfections
Distorted now, dissuaded
Manipulated to breathe new light on us sinners
Still we stand, bounce, gyrate
To exalt newfound, everchanging
Impermanent deities

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Can we have our weekend 

Saturday, I think I spelled beret right
Anyway there’s a girl with a beret in front of me and Isaiah Rashad is the modern manifestation of rap ideals
I think she might get it, maybe
But she walks away and there’s more purple light on my mind, rising dark night
Bad beer hydration
Bouncing hands
Focus, blur evening orator
Whispers of politics, politics, politics
Bleeding into our venue doors
Don’t take the picture, revolutionaries draped in escapism
Saturday,
Saturday still dripping

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I Still Ignite My dreams

Squash face disciple of the blood teeth rock and roll bible
Dance your anger piety in my circle until we purge this overbearing hate
I didn’t fucking vouch for it
And it hurts
But broken nose prophets with our red dried t-shirts know the game
It’s all shit and poison pretense
So let’s take a dose of this defective, beautiful flame quench personality of move along with it
and burn the next four years into a fire big enough to light the wick of love and art
Ivory string poised to explode
in definitions of this millennium to come

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