Call to Dive

Well, there's another song done. Call to Dive is a song with specific sections: the first half of the song is extremely dense, the second half is incredibly poignant (which is where I pulled all the lyrics from for my titles). Here's the lyrics, with the second half designated by a big ol' marker.

The lids on Streetlights peel back
to reveal row upon row of bulging black bird eye.
all gorged out toward you like exotic zoo snakes
heaped up on fiberglass rocks,
fat with farmed rats coaxed down their throat...

below them in their brights,
tilt finished arrows beached up on thin tin signs.
and where its corrugated stem injects into cement
there is a deep fried breastbone,
popping hard half ate on a rich red curb...

all at once,
this moment has no mercy on your color find eye's
stole blues version of oakland...
as you make for thin ice on your you on you violent night.

the next morning everything begins again over a walk,
past a few balloons tied to a lovesick car-salesman's wrist.
you press on...
a soft bicycle wheel chained up
behind a savage looking pair of women's dress shoes,
abandoned to the left of a tire tread pressed dead pigeon
lain askew in more rich rose colored gutter.

temperature taking your skin,
tinged city wind catching air
on your pleasantly imperfect and c-section shaped skull.

For once forget your headed to the mailbox
to drop more finished bills down to its gut...
even though for all you know...
that's about as far as those things ever go.

as sad as it is so,
kids today will never wear the perfect cape of clean air.
nor one true brand new brazier of sheer luck...
or does someone out there still expect that...
the way a moth gives freely of itself unto the bulb.

they will not learn their lesson from a teachers copy
of a blackened lung, hung in the classroom, on the coat rack...
or left dripping in the closet during math minutes passing.
nor from a nice new globe made of gold, cast in the shape of a half eaten apple...

not until...
the sun is on a stick.
the moon hung on a hook.

desperate times call for step by step schematics of the human dive.

The end...

(one mile of week&will later)

a sunset interjects.
donating the kind of red you only see in stores.
affording yourself a bit more reality,
some singular mood polarity .

If you could, you'd have a close friend
drive you off into the sinking pinks.

Also, when John McCain called Obama names, he was actually referencing this guy.

If you could, you'd have a close friend drive you off into the sinking pinks


Yeah. That was it.