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lyrics

The Letter
Sunrise is a foul bitch
Wiping the dreams from my mind
Like dusting cobwebs at dawn.
I expected more from a night’s wanderings
Than you in the hospital
And me sending a gourd in an envelope.
Did the fragile seeds remind you that there really is a God?
Did I tell you as a boy about the rules concerning smoking?
How things change in the dim vista of years
As the struggle continues
Unabated?
Perhaps your condition isn’t terminal, And perhaps your need for truth outweighs my clinging to falsehood.
No matter, you returned my message with scotch tape and derision
Stamped on the outside of an envelope that could contain the world.
What was I trying to say?
That hope is a mirthless, tired whore shaking herself awake at dawn?
That we all need a dream to cling to as the bitter acid of minutes erases boyhood charm from our sagging features?
I’m feeling old today, and the creaking furniture of bygone sunsets isn’t being sold in my personal store of memories and delusions.
In fact, I’m feeling used today, like fate that motherfucker has turned me out onto a street lined with sad faces and tired eyes.
(How much will you pay for me to comfort you?
I could write missives from now until Judgment.
Would you listen, ensconced as it were, in your comfortable stiff bed and starched white shroud?) Decadence suits you, even in the enfolding arms of your ultimate demise.
And death of this dream is permanent delusion.
I’ll take the letter back.
I’ll eat my own damn fruit.
I’ll shove it down my throat until I choke, and then laugh as I vomit up bits and pieces of guilt.
I’m not your own to tamper with, nor can use be made of a carcass so willing to spoil itself on the
bright white sands of burning enmity.
This confession has meant nothing.
Tomorrow night you’ll be well, and I’ll be sick.

credits

from Curtains: Readings from Molotov by Tom Baker, released November 9, 2019

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Extreme Volume Pop Indiana

Hopefully, my various musics are ultimately like magic bullets that enter and impact at the base of the skull, ricochet around the brain chamber, and then leave a gaping exit wound in the forehead. You may hate them


Since 2006!

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