Written and recorded in one day as part of the second Song Diary project, an exercise in holding on and letting go, April 16th (Easter) 2017 to April 15th (Tax Day) 2018.
lyrics
I am driving toward Elden as the sun starts to rise
on the very first day of the blessed rest of my life.
The mountain is a blade that’s bearing down on the sky,
strapped spinning to a wheel. It’s me throwing the knife.
Every breath is a letter in the fuzzy tale of your life,
by turns epic and dull, and at the end everyone dies.
Omar said, “there is a door to which i found no key;
there is a veil beyond which i cannot see.”
He was describing the platform where you sit equal between
the closing doors of the trains of your two wildest dreams –
failed grails we quested for. When we got them at last
near to our lips, they up and melted in our grasp.
So I’m going up the mountain and I am
never never
never never coming down.
Like a hair on the back of your head, I stood up for you.
We were like plaster and mould; the dumb lucky few who knew
what the man made of roses said to the man made of thorns,
in whose bloodstreams we swam naked before we were born,
where the waiter of fate served us his four winged cups:
one of milk, one of sweat, one of wine, and one of blood.
Now my flock of white birds is flying toward your red setting sun,
with the road a long black ribbon underneath us undone.
For this gift wrapped beneath it, our garden and our grave,
the great bed where love, and death, is remade.
Through the famished wall of memory do you still listen to the sex?
Through the skylight look to death and wonder, “am i next?”?
So I’m going up the mountain and I am
never never
never never coming down.
Were you posing for a photo when they were taking a video?
Did they ask you who you were? Did you tell the truth that you don’t know?
You feel sorrow with the sorrower, and faith near the faithful.
You prepared all the food, then you can’t sit at the table.
You wrote all the songs, then got kicked out of the band.
You know you shouldn’t bomb what you can kill with your hands.
There is no faith without darkness. The blind asteroid
is a slave to its progress, forward always into the void
in the mold of starlight, the glory of the dead
who sing and write and matter only in our heads.
Shoot all those old corpse noble paintings into space.
The Louvre would make a great fake mole for the Man in the Moon’s face
So I’m going up the mountain and I am
never never
never never coming down.
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