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All That’s Left Are Love Songs

I’ve been spending a lot of my time in dark rooms, watching people standing in the light
There’s a quietness, buried in their sound
As they stand trapped, by a captive audience
Affixed to the stage, mirroring back the energy we pour into the ether
Entertainers of the frightened, leaking masses
Teaching lessons of confidence wrapped in the shroud of vulnerability my family can’t help but keep passing down
But I know it’s love…
Love that holds them together as the world quakes around them
Love that whispers every name I’ve forgotten tonight
Love that finds it’s safe haven here with our people
Love set ablaze burning the reticence we forgot to let go of

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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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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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Tangled Strings

Arthritic hands maneuvering the marionette man in his pillbox hat
As he stands
Mumbling the old hymns of a long fought generation
Tired, reconciled to fate
Bleeding from the wounds of a dirge formed dagger whispering it’s own melody beneath his quietly forming crimson scarf
Songs, hymns, history forming in the rotting tube of his scratch pipe esophagus
Apostolic Beatles corrupter
Dancing ragged enchantment across the melody poisonings of his mid-week exhalations
Stock legged stumbling, our past-exalted pilgrim
Twisting his ballad with Frank
For the decades dashed children of our newborn todays
And maybe,
It was his tears in the dark,
Not mine
That wept for who we were supposed to be

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Love from a HeathenĀ 

I never spoke to your god,

Prayed, believed
Still don’t really
But I can feel a sense of something
Beyond myself
Not a spiritual being
More an energy,
A force
It’s the bubbling over of sound and feeling that penetrates a room of strangers
It subsists in the artistry of life,
The commonality of all of us
Beautiful projectiles
Launched into orbit around each other
It’s wild and random
and magnificently important
And I probably will never believe in your god
But this Sunday,
I choose to believe in you
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