1. |
Bend the Corners
03:23
|
|||
|
When I put my image on the tele, when I put a person up to view—bend the corners, lift and fold and carry what I give. I don't have any proof of existing, ever existing. I just like to listen, give a listen, give a little listen. Sometimes I don't really feel like keeping up appearances. When you don't look real, then you're dead. I don't look for answers, I just know my place. What I like is all I can remember, all the other things just slip away. I wonder if I know what makes me happy, better off if I don't have to choose what I want to keep around, I think it's just an instinct. So I don't know why I keep on dropping and picking up the grievances. I'm as cracked as I am alive. Maybe I don't show it, I just tell, tell, tell. When I figure out what makes me real, then I guess I'll flaunt it. Put it up for everyone to flip past. I can't keep living this fast when I see my neighborhood watering itself in the dirt. I tell myself I'm rooted, I just root for it. I just root it on.
|
||||
2. |
Chicken Feed
04:21
|
|||
|
You give your heart out, out for chicken feed. Smoke his cigarettes and trail his lead. But you're liked—liked, but never brave. You dig your fingernails into his bed frame and wonder if these breaths give protection, give anything more than their heat. Now the nickname his friends tailored for you hangs around your worries like a jewel, and in a whisper shaking through the dark, you ask him what those fuckers think you are. He says "Oh, please. It's no threat. It's not what you think, they're dicking around, so let 'em. Forget 'em... and if you can't forget 'em, it's nothing to me. If you do forget 'em, it's nothing to me." So be still. Be blank. Bare, without a body, a voice, a nerve. Your nerve.
|
||||
3. |
Eight Days a Week
03:07
|
|||
|
When my baby lifts her head, tells me I'm her own, that's when I know I'm not alone, and I close my eyes. If the weather's looking bad, we know it'll pass. There's rain and there's sun and there's us. And there's always us. Six, seven, eight days a week. If I never go back home, that'll be okay. I don't like it there anyway, 'cause I just feel cold, and it's so much warmer here where my baby rests. It's so much warmer all the time, and we always feel happy as a pair of...
|
||||
4. |
Sails Down
03:35
|
|||
|
Sails down. I hope you're not too hard on me, I'm not the one who tells you when to jump ship anyway, so I don't get this now. Sometimes you stare and some you bite my shoulder, my neck. Could I adjust the solid I did you? Time brushed my arm and now I'm back when you asked where we were and where we ought to go. But then, I was foolish. I was cruel. I left it to you. So bring me back to the sea, the open waters, for now.
|
||||
5. |
Moon's Fake
02:26
|
|||
|
Heard the moon's fake. Don't it look heavy tonight? Bet it's as light as dust. But looking at you, porcelain babe in the light, honey, it must be real. I don't look up often enough, babe, to know which of the stars are gods. I hope you can show me tonight. Make them come alive. I can't believe anything less. Up there, I can't deny anything. Wish on the lake for perennial night. Darken the sky with our fire. Then we can rest. Let our philosophies rest, and let our gods rest too.
|
||||
6. |
Lie
04:11
|
|||
|
My memory is failing me terribly now, but there's a comma, a link to the end of this phrase. I don't have a single clue why there's a silencer on this barrel. If I were going to say what I wanted to, I'd have said it without a doubt. Now my cold feet are bare on the heat of this pavement and I remember the answer I promised you hours ago. But it was more of an answer then, and less of a complication. Now it's hard to say if the fidelity in question is a lie. You'll say the scattered ashes fall here, that promises with bows are for display. You'd pray for rain if that would clear it all and justify the cloud over your head. I'd rather lie.
|
||||
7. |
Old Black and Green
03:21
|
|||
|
Light fell around you, dusty and cold, when you snuck into my basement and stole a shirt from the dryer, one that you gave me three years back from some place on Main. Your head poking through, you saw me catch you. With eyes on my feet, you promised me you hadn't changed. Black stripes through green hung like rings on the sleeves on the shoulders you shrugged indifferently. Your hand on my back, head on my sleeve, I could already tell you had changed. On your way up the stairs, you crouched down to see me with both hands up on my head. You smiled in a way that I'd never seen. You smiled in a way I could never trust, but you never could wear my trust as well as you wore that shirt. You knew it too. Just as you left, I gathered some words, chased them after you, but they just leaked through my fingers and spilled over the floor. Well you may be gone, but I'll know you still, as long as you'll be the one in my old black and green.
|
||||
8. |
Needlework
05:00
|
|||
|
Songs of honor always seemed to be the ones you found the best to sing, flipping through your periodicals and other sources of escape. On and on you lost yourself around the movements of your eyes and hands, never bothering to see or feel. Trust was such a difficulty then, but now you'll never be alone again. Say you know a reason why the colors never ran beyond the lines, now that all the boundaries have disappeared, if they were ever there. Speak until the intonations in your voice have taken color too, and I'll remind you not to sing your blues. There was such a hassle when we didn't know that everything was here for us. Don't sew your stitches in a straight row, I'm here. Let go, let the needlework show you lines of lace entwined with woven elaborate designs. Threads and threads in ties, drape your perfectionist mind. Now go, go on, pull the loose end and let's watch it all unwind. With the pale December morning, you awaken once the chill has passed, reveling to find yourself a fiber in the fabric of a truth. Toss all of your questions over in the basket just beside the door, please be kind enough to hit the lights, and don't forget to let me know whenever God is coming into town again.
|
||||
9. |
Kindling
03:32
|
|||
|
Sweep the pine leaves off the floor, got a bit of what we paid for. Pour the crystal glasses full. Yeah, I know they aren't crystal, but tonight they could be. Watch the cider on the stove. Cinnamon and bourbon. Whole cloves. I'll run out for kindling, dear. Sure, I know there is no fireplace here...that's some other place...I just need a walk, a walk to remind me of when these holidays were holy, still. Read the Christmas cards again, just so I can hear their voices. I'll pull out that poem we saved from the little note your father gave us just as we left. It's something like, "Harder times have heard us sing / Glory through the downward swings / Pleas against these awful trials / Never fail but take a while." As ours do now. I guess we can wait.
|
||||
sourlips Richmond, Virginia
I make things here and there, sometimes I leave them here.
sourlips recommends:
A Scapegoat for Your Apple Eating
by Jenna Kole
Jenna's a good friend of mine and she's a helluva songwriter. The proof is in the link.
go to album
So dreamy. This guy gets it.
go to album
Been waiting for another release from these fine people—does not disappoint.
go to albumIf you like sourlips, you may also like:
featured on Bandcamp Radio Apr 30, 2024
go to album
The Toronto-based sextet make moody, cinematic sounding music that blends psych-folk and post-rock.
go to album
Mind, Man, Medicine
by The Secret Sisters
The Alabama duo's fifth album exults in dusty Americana, showcasing rich vocal harmonies alongside blissful folk instrumentation.
go to album
