1. |
Furnace
02:56
|
|||
|
Sister, I have sunk-in my eyes with dark beer and threadbare non-fiction memorizing. Cut to ribbons by pens and swords—Darling know I hang on every word.
I hang on every word. I hang on every word like a pigeon on a high-tension wire. I watch and I fidget as you stoke the fire to seven-times its heat.
Mother know that I, like a gull, fly bloated circles ‘round any speech that’s appetizing. Carved in ivory or burned in wood—Darling know I hang on every word.
I hang on every word. I hang on every word like a pigeon on a high-tension wire. I watch and I fidget as you stoke the fire to seven-times its heat.
|
||||
2. |
||||
|
Sleeping in again—don’t you know that I can’t stand my tin can heart rolling over? When the night’s spent, picture this: Your thousand friends all burnt, torn, and rent moving closer.
In the catacombs, fissures split his frontal bone as endless groans call for Sunday. How strange it seems that accusations by the reams do nothing for me but pull my eyelids closed.
But here’s the cup. Here’s the furnace. Drink it up. Drink it all. Here’s the cup. Here’s the furnace. Drink it up. Drink it all.
Now my heart sits covered in a cataract. Can I retract my hand from your disappointment? In the doorway, vomit’s caked in a matinee. I can’t stand the shakes of anger in your voice.
But here’s the cup. Here’s the furnace. Drink it up. Drink it all. Here’s the cup. Here’s the furnace. I’ll bear the brunt—I’ll take the fall.
But you say, “Come and sleep in My Symmetrical Love.”
|
||||
3. |
The VVitch
04:37
|
|||
|
Darling, that man wrings his hands like flies. Deep in the stand of cedars hang his eyes. And I’ve found our reflection floating in his crucible.
It’s the Witch.
Darling, that dance—will it command the breeze? A fistfight in hand— “Hey, she’s with me!” You and I will always be corroding just like batteries. I am swimming, frantic, in her reservoir.
It’s the Witch.
Where I go, I know she’ll follow.
It’s the Witch/She’s the Witch/I’m the Witch/We’re the Witch
|
||||
4. |
Giver
03:25
|
|||
|
How much blood's he gonna draw?
How much blood's he gonna draw?
The harem of my sorrows lies awake and waiting.
I'm slogging through the fallow fields while the rain lashes and blinds.
How much blood's he gonna draw?
How much blood's he gonna draw?
Were I to be jackknifed on the highway, they couldn't pull me out of things not going my way now or then.
I can't help but to recall nothing but woodworm and gall but I can tell you he's not one to take
|
||||
5. |
Serpent Bit
03:02
|
|||
|
Glen thinks in consonants. They met in a blanket of Holiness. Now they’re flying down the 76. It’s not the car that makes her motion sick. The smell is coming from her fingertips, curled and dead like he hopes she is.
Oh how honesty rattles back.
Glen’s a man who knows the Lord but since sliding-back he hasn’t heard a word. Her skin is tight like the head of a drum. Black veins like the interstate run to frame her face and keep her tongue marching in place and laying dumb.
Oh how honesty rattles back.
It’s far from Sunday but they’re in the shed. He kicks the box and he lifts the lid. Fire floods her pretty, thin wrist. “Glen!” she says when skin splits. She tries to swallow but she has no spit. He wraps her hair around his fist.
Oh how honesty rattles back.
He tells her what to write their son but “Daddy’s asleep” is all that comes. He passes out and drops his drink. Her mind succumbs to white noise thinking. She leaves the house with swollen lips and falls in the road, serpent bit.
|
||||
6. |
Acres
04:46
|
|||
|
Choking down food in a parking lot, fed on a loop of ingrate thoughts. Static blasts but the radio’s off and you can’t turn it down.
Where have I been since last July? It doesn’t quite matter which one you like: A bosom’s warmth or the bulwark’s might. You’re stuck in or out.
When the seasons pack you in. When your mind is stuttering, thinking ‘bout what could have been. I only ever wanted to be happier.
I wanted 100 acres all my own.
Know the blindest eyes only search inside themselves.
Using your hands to dredge the lake dug from bone and filled with names you can’t forget and hate to say. They paint your lips like cigarette stains. Frozen in place as your life recedes, split at the end like dogwood trees vacantly traced from the passenger seat as the world’s flying by.
When your teeth are ground and smashed. When the soil’s turned to ash. When you find you’re getting trapped in third-person epitaphs. When the sea is dry and spent. When your prayers are call-collect. When the devil gets his rent, he breaks my thumbs and pokes my chest. When the letter’s long been sent. When I started drinking less. Know that long before we met, I only ever wanted to be happier.
I wanted 100 acres all my own.
Know the blindest eyes only search inside themselves.
|
||||
7. |
||||
|
I have caught in my teeth the bullet of uncertainty leveled-out and fired at me from your tired eyes.
I’m trapped inside a monologue on every drive and every walk. You and I are teased apart here to Sinai.
But I’d never melt your jewelry or speak on your behalf. I only have foundations laid to patiently cast your name into a golden calf.
I can’t help myself. No I can’t help myself. Burn the book and blot me out. No, I can’t help myself.
So darling go, and please cash-in, the promises of weaker men, who, taciturn and clamouring, have nothing good to say.
With your hand in mine to hold, the tenements of my heart rose like broken teeth with vacancies I can’t fill on my own.
But I’d never melt your jewelry or speak on your behalf. I only have foundations laid to patiently cast your name into a golden calf.
I can’t help myself. No I can’t help myself. Burn the book and blot me out. No, I can’t help myself.
A greying ocean laps its beach. I barely step out of reach but always moving, fathoms deep, is a current.
|
||||
8. |
Cat O' Nine Tails
03:10
|
|||
|
Trampled back by animal tasks tied tight in narrative slack, I have lost all control—a bird with a metronome. But sometimes, baby, I still wonder when did the light on my mirror burn out? How long’s it been since I’ve seen myself?
But whips crack overhead and choke the air I’m singing with. Cat O’ Nine Tails, drive me on.
Fattened up on hallelujahs thrown out like wedding day doves but I have withered down to bone as gardens fade to monochrome. But sometimes, baby, I still wonder: How long have I been sitting in my car? When did the bags on my eyes turn dark?
But whips crack overhead and choke the air I’m singing with. Cat O’ Nine Tails, drive me on.
Forget about love. What is your life? Love will find you if it comes--and when it does, don’t forget to make time for love.
|
||||
If you like Nathan El, you may also like:
Phototherapy EP
by Fahim Rahman
A collection of twinkling bedroom folk-pop demos from Fahim Rahman that arcs from hushed intimacy to sweeping cinematic emotionality.
go to album
Westward, to Nowhere
by Ian McCuen
This sweet, mournful “loose concept” album from folk artist Ian McCuen tracks a journey across the bleak landscape of American life.
go to album
The Same Mistakes
by Hot Left Pole
Soft-as-a-whisper folk music, with spiderwebs of guitar and vocal melodies as comforting as a lullaby.
go to album
Whispery indie folk from the UK, “Hard Work” cradles soft and gentle vocal melodies in a nest of acoustic guitars.
go to album
The Australian singer's debut solo album is filled with creative indie pop tracks.
go to album
A vibrant vision of "Central Americana" from the Costa Rica-based artist, blending heartland devotionals with playful Tropicália grooves.
go to album
Tense, moody, guitar-forward songs from VanWyck that emphasize tension and fragility.
go to album
