1. |
The Sway
03:12
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under the sway of fields of poppies.
in the sun all day. swimming between the lilies.
living on the hill, looking out on the blue ridge,
it’s easy to feel like we don’t need nothing more than this.
we used to want to see the end, cities melting into grass.
but now i see there'd be no place for me to find guitar strings.
under the sway of this sound,
i'm drifting away and i don’t want to be found.
strumming away alone, i been dreaming of will on drums.
mitchell, mike and ian.
let's make some noise while we can.
we used to want to see the end, cities melting into grass.
but now i see there'd be no place for me to find guitar strings.
we used to want to see the end, cities melting into grass.
but now i see that sound’s a place where we don’t feel fallen.
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2. |
Turn to Ghosts
04:07
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at the center of the sound it is still,
but it’s swirling all around where you stand.
all the scumbags that been prying into your brain
fade away. now turn to ghosts, stuck out in the rain.
if you want to sleep at night, hollow out a home made out of noise.
six foot waves pushing out from your chest, washing them further out to sea.
breathe and feel the weight sliding off.
close your eyes, you don’t see red, you don’t taste blood.
you can’t help but move your feet, just spit and smile
to yourself and sing this song straight through them.
if you want to sleep at night, hollow out a home made out of noise.
six foot waves pushing out from your chest, washing them further out to sea.
if you want to speak in tongues, hollow out a home made out of noise.
six foot waves pushing out from your chest, washing their filth right off of you.
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3. |
Written on Me
04:12
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the way i take to get to you winds through the deepest woods,
through caves and canyons where the echoes keep shifting.
i been hacking back the vines choking all the other paths,
but my machete arm is tired. i’ll cede this one to the fist of time.
but some roads are ground into the earth somehow.
some scars are drawn too deep. you’re written on me.
wiser men know to take their rest, but i’m a runner on the paths
that wind through the wilderness separating each of us.
i see my mark covered up. branches got no regard for us.
these passages keep on narrowing. all except that forsaken one.
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4. |
Magnets
06:45
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i been thinking. i been staring at the sun.
earth is a fireball churning beneath us.
a molten magnet wrapped in stone,
tugging on the iron in our blood.
we forged a looking glass
and we saw that heaven is black,
but we don’t have to be loved to love.
no, we are all grown up.
we’ll look to the sky without asking for help.
we won’t hope for heaven but we won’t fear hell.
eyes open when we’re born. what is this place?
such strange dreams we’ve entertained:
ancestors in the woods, father in the sky,
a man on a cross and reasons why.
i won’t turn away. now we’re seeing through hubble’s eyes.
but i won’t say these words don’t make me cry:
we don’t have to be loved to love.
we don’t have to be loved to love.
we’ll look to the sky without asking for help.
we won’t hope for heaven but we won’t fear hell.
our view’s not blocked at night. we’re dangling over the abyss.
always feel ourselves falling, but we can’t help looking in.
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5. |
Sun in my Face
04:13
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after the ball drops and the glitter is swept away,
the people have all gone home and they’re dreaming of frozen places.
waking with the sun in my face on another half-finished day.
but i didn’t have to go to work so i carved something small from all my dreaming.
the party stopped our sense of time,
now our livers are burning off the wine.
we’re waking up, we’re still alive.
and the clock’s ticking softly on every bedside.
even if we’re just singing into space,
i want to do it loud and long as i can and bury those thoughts of what could have been.
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6. |
Exit Signs
06:05
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the exit signs line the highway.
from the dark, one floats shining.
passing over the lamp, i hear the film whirring.
phantoms between the frames playing back in silence.
from the tablelands of my father’s clan, passing through the darkness, driving through my past.
the ghosts of friends, the ghost of myself,
ghosts of gardens younger hands tilled.
like the flicker of the guardrail passing,
what i’ve known is sliding past me.
from the tablelands of my father’s clan, passing through the darkness, driving through my past.
farmlands on the hill rise above the swamp and there are mountain trails above the hospital.
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7. |
Forget about This
03:56
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knee-deep in my own dusty footsteps.
sick to my stomach from the stench of my nest.
went to preschool down the street from where i go to drink.
staying in this town’s like fucking myself.
i’ll go back to spain and never come home again.
forget about this life that i’ve led.
lay an ocean between me and all the things i never did.
that’s a lot of regret for a good man.
that’s an awful long knife for a helping hand.
i’m losing the muscles that hide when i’m bored,
so what’s left but to blame it all on winston.
i’ll go back to spain and never come home again.
forget about this life that i’ve led.
lay an ocean between me and all the things i never did.
i’ll go back to spain and i’ll never cry again,
just as long as i don’t make new friends.
lay an ocean between me and all the folks i saw myself in.
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8. |
Not a Sound
05:07
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we’ve got a place downtown.
it is nice, i don’t make a sound.
not a sound.
even if i’m made of rain, i’m standing in the sun rays.
shallow footsteps toward a shallow grave: i don’t mind, i laugh every day.
there’s no echo from my name, but on her lips it’s like a flame.
i’m a shadow in this window frame, but in the springtime the view is great.
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9. |
Young Evil
09:24
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dead words to hang in the air. black eyes to hide behind my hair.
you talk and i just smile. my tongue is caged by my canines.
i hung my mirror between you and me and let you speak.
you might remember my face but i’m far behind it.
you’re having such a nice time. i keep you entertained.
but you are just catching my scraps. what my jokes shit out.
that mulberry tree’s been gone for years and it’s dead to me,
but you like telling stories about you and me.
sorry, i guess i’ve got a bad memory.
i still don’t quite recall just where you fit in.
you ask for photos of me. i always agree.
“i’ll look and see what i’ve got.” you’re checking the mailbox
for what you’ll never receive. to me, this is funny.
black holes in my sweet brown eyes, and i’m turning off the lights.
that mulberry tree’s been gone for years and it’s dead to me,
but you like telling stories about you and me.
somehow i doubt that it slipped your memory,
that one little story that never crosses your lips.
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