So the flesh begins its meditations, drifting from the mind’s ministrations into the varying moods of meat. So the ache settles on a direction, so the instrument bites the lip of the allusion, the bearings corrected for wear and tear and spiritual drift. Something to the ardor of the singing, something to the reason of the rhyme. The breeze laps at these perspirations as the heart cries out, the remembered incantation a hound loosed upon the hart breath on the heels of the word. The notation floats between phrasings, the notions held close at the angle of observance, the world ever turning and perturbed. These lyrics the stitching that fixes our stars.
This comes from the tatters I inhabit, this from the very conceit I intend. Headphones and stand alones, a shuffled list of many decks, a forced card from a gaffed deal treated as a covenant. Buyers markets and tactical retreats, this version always returning to the earth, this incarnation another arrow off its mark. These old echoes through conceded strongholds of ego, this eerie ringing through the rock. It’s the most wearisome of combinations, fists without snap or follow through, the mistaken segments of the text. Stuck in stretches, struck by stars, the tongue keeps at it. It’s a process, but particular disasters stand out.
It arrives in answer to unknown anticipations, it takes shape faster than the thought can follow, so abrupt against the perceptions. A swelling of the stir of leaves, a shadow pressed against the sway of limbs, inky feather or sun plummeted wing. The crawling in the dark, something coming up the stair, some 70s melody with a Karen Carpenter hook shuffling in dark. So these metaphors make the most of us, willing spirit and wasted flesh, the words we are buried in as they fill in for the want. We wake following the lead, tracking the dream or filling in the journey. I speak aloud to remain unheard, the radio left on against the night, static crackling into the black.