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lyrics

Pray for the dead...

Eyes formed in the knots of wood,
watching the dead wash up on the pulse of the tide,
all birds are perched, and stare out to sea.
The beating of their wings is keeping me sober,
I tear them off, to plug the sink.
To drown harlots and their unborn,
weathered by psalms knotted in carpentry.
My love inhales clouds that I exhale.
Sitting still she is pruning arteries,
with a rusted pair of nail scissors,
fencing with antlers spits blood from her bridal.
Pray for the dead...
for the living are too busy praying for themselves,
into gold bullet heads I etch their names.

I carved symbols into her feet, into her palms,
ironing out crosses and plucking in creases.

The moon and its influence upon tides and menstruation,
within its gown we are sniffing glue.
We take needle and thread to each others lips,
and chart starless skies to navigate T.V. snow.
An umbrella lampshade casts her a halo,
she writes a list of all the saints that got off upon penance,
with the dried blood between her virgin thighs.

The dew of ripe fruit clings to her lips,
as the cranes rust in ocean winds her libido slowly poisons swarms of
shellfish salivating.

As I wash her yoke off my face
I fondle my patients embroidered in blisters.
In dark dreams of desolations
from the saw wounds of the dead trees we suck sulphur.
The clouds are plagues hung over the black earth.

Undressed in wind farms,
your impression is cast in the sails, plucked out by the gales.
Pregnant and brooding,
sharpening her teeth on the bark of a dead inverted cross.
Counting bloody fingers reaching,
wean the moon of its blood pail murmurs of its slumber.
Herding rapings behind portraits,
unfurl and season me with petty autopsy.
Drunk on your bath water,
yawning a fermented frost upon blistered porcelain.
Crawling through heather,
discourteous wine stains mourn pailbearers of my lust.
Counting bloody fingers reaching,
wean the moon of its blood pail murmurs of its slumber.
Herding rapings behind portraits,
unfurl and season me with petty autopsy.

There is a transparency of love in-between nicotine silences.
I pondered in a seance of black smoke drifting gently
upward from crematorium chimney stacks.
Indian ink sinking deep into the whore of a sky...

I'll be the glass this time.

credits

from Eeling, released February 1, 2013

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Girls Pissing on Girls Pissing is Casey James lAtimer, Ak Buk, Catherine Cumming, Steven Huf, Brett Ryan and Alexander Knight.

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