Tag Archives: water


And so I thought, “If a picture paints a thousand words, how many does a song paint?” and went with that. I’ve been meaning to write more music lately, but I’ve also had a lot on my mind about the way that words work in music, as opposed to poetry. Unlike poems, which are often enhanced by specifics, song lyrics in general tend to rely on pronouns and ambiguity, allowing the listener to apply his or her own meaning to the words. Sometimes, even the cheesiest, most apoetic lines sound profound, and that’s what I tried to do here (I used to write lyrics like “translucent and impermanent,” but that never got me anywhere); I tried writing on 3 different topics at once, intentionally leaving it vague so that a listener might bring him or herself into it. An MP3 should be posted by the end of the day (Eastern Standard time). Unless I get drunk and forget, which is entirely possible.

For forty days, I fasted you,
Liquid sustenance to help me make it through.
A friend of fire, burning with desire, yours and mine,
but this water keeps on turning into wine

Spent forty nights awake through this,
Starved for comfort, stars, and every goodbye kiss.
This desert bed, these grains of sand where I should rest my head, just like a fool,
a wanderer with nothing left to lose.

Ooh, you carry this around
Ooh, I bury myself deeper underground
Ooh, your voice the only sound that I can hear
It echoes every time you disappear

Ooh, I carry this around
Ooh, you bury yourself deeper underground
Ooh, your voice the only song I want to hear
and I found it on the day you disappeared

For forty days, I fasted you,
Liquid sustenance to help me make it through.
If you never hear a word of this again, let’s make it clear
that I lost you on the day I disappeared.

The Company Bow

A sundial, sitting at the edge of a skirt, is feeding
on decay from proscenium walls. The crumble of
its majesty is Grecian in its tragedy, but hardly
as memorable as the long forgotten luster
of the golden laurel leaves that adorn the façade.

The space below is filled with rows
of wine-stained lips, each frozen in
a petrified reach to kiss the sky
and hide its eyes from the dying
desolation that they themselves
once wreaked upon the stage.

If only these mouths were open, they could taste
the stuffy air staled by every clapping palm,
every whistle, every pleading whisper, and the
last recited lines whose echoes still fill the space—
they are always trying desperately to escape
but only can reverberate off of
floorboards drenched with rain
and tears, cleverly constructed
arches that have failed to do their job,
and of course, the final curtain.