1. |
*
00:28
|
|||
2. |
Pig Dance
01:45
|
|||
|
Skirting the muddy ground—
pink toes plié
the waltz of a falling body,
snout like a whirling gear.
Do I have things I don’t need?
A dainty morsel of me.
Cog turned against its match,
eye wrapped in fleshy limbs.
Twirling on its own mangled feet.
Through ground up little teeth—
a startling voice, my own
heaven-bent—
hurtling towards the earth.
What can I leave behind?
The weight and the cage
upon a spring, against the sky.
From flight to flight,
what crimes have I?
Princess Pinkness
in a tower,
Princess Pinkness in an abattoir.
I could never be too free—
|
||||
3. |
Bulldog
00:48
|
|||
|
Smashed face in her shaking hands,
she licks imaginary wounds.
The life she never settled into:
wrapped in blankets on the couch,
whimpering and inconsolable.
She screams at every knock, at every step,
at every scrape on the door
cringing at the unanswered intercom
and losing breath.
Violence and desire conspired to give her life—
converged to shape and break her form.
Unsure of every step she’s taken since her birth,
the travesty that loosed her on this Earth.
|
||||
4. |
Inside-Out Girl
02:20
|
|||
|
Cast off my body like an afterbirth,
mirrors shattered at the first notes of her wandering song.
The ocean echo past her aperture—
a whisper rasping through the clattering wet syllables.
My fingers clasped between the strands of her hair
trying to balance the need to speak with gasping for air,
terminal sense of relief
as I slipped her on
like we had never split—
and tides are turning against us—
a silent intercom / transgendered acceptance.
The warning pulse of their lighthouse expressions begin
when she’s about to come around
with her wanting hands—
you were the only one with a burden.
I’m always asking for help.
Reach out—drown—
the weight of constant inversion,
I’m always asking for help.
You were the only one with a burden.
|
||||
5. |
Rats In Cages
01:52
|
|||
6. |
Rats In The Tracks
01:07
|
|||
|
There's gold in the river,
and cash in the tracks.
For people like us
there's always cheese in the trap—
train’s always coming,
coming down the track.
Rats in packs—
—but you're not like that
didn't pack a suitcase
and I'm never coming back you fuckers—
never found a talent
and I accept the facts:
hungry for freedom
running down the tracks.
|
||||
7. |
Purgatory Blues
03:30
|
|||
|
I shouldn’t be here
in the kitchen at the crossroads,
plucking your wings clean
and chewing till the steam screams.
My suicide blues—
“you left me, i want you—”
don’t make me leave, don’t make me choose.
Who holds more sway
in the hierarchy of heaven—
the knife or the hand?
Beyond the salt encrusted cellar door
there’s a perfect place to hide.
Don’t you want to start back?
Don’t you want to come inside?
Through rustless steel and blood
a crescent emerges to the sound of trumpets.
Pouring it’s honey down
to nourish me.
|
||||
8. |
Morning
00:39
|
|||
|
There’s no defeat as final as
the shame of coming home again.
Feeble and reckless, wander on
with an albatross necklace—morning songs.
And high-noon breakfast—
stay
close—
stay, close,
just a few more hours—
|
||||
9. |
Mouth Full Of Feathers
01:10
|
|||
|
Dinner's served—
and it's a whole lot less than you deserved.
Stagger, stutter
to the last fucking supper—
all of my failures
are in the wind and on the wing.
Mouth full of dirty feathers,
I admit everything.
Take this body,
take everything.
I am not hesitant—
I give up every part.
A carrion offering
attended by the murder of crows.
A personal apocalypse—
total lunar eclipse.
|
||||
10. |
Burning Womb
04:23
|
|||
|
The city is a split jaw.
The sterile water of clinics
is siphoned up to every open mouth.
Soaked roots, a coin under your pillow—
reminders of all the ways
you won’t survive.
Through smoke and salt that stings your eyes.
Everything at your back resists your existence.
A heat-fever, a salt-circled room, your god-given season.
Even your shadow untethered itself from your frame.
Your pain resists its own existence,
it grew from shit and silt under a hateful sun.
I want to hurt—
I want my burning womb.
I want Montgomery,
Jackson,
Atlanta,
every capital in America
burning like a copper pipe,
uneasy green to stain the crimson sky.
Burning like a demolition charge—
pious white, corporate ash.
Burning like
silent lightning against my baby teeth.
Pure as salt I cast them
behind my back.
Dilating void contains the past.
Bear witness to my body’s lack—
the site of pain is gentrified.
The scar of memory is cauterized.
I turn inward, see my body’s empty room
the blood and salt
and deeper, the city—
bear witness to it’s
reconstruction,
castration
unending violation.
|
||||
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