Meet me with your bodies for crosses,
goodness overlapped by sin,
jewels of your imperfections
worn as bracelets ‘round your thighs.
He steps into his shovel.
Stones sing; steel voices ring.
Yes, the morning dew clings
to the flesh and his face.
His face weeps sweat
at three by six and two yards deep.
A blackbird whispers:
Alms for the Digger
Will we finally remember to be satisfied of moment,
realize there is no surprise in time spent seeking back.
Mysterious connection, we of human invention
tend to view ourselves as extensions
of god beasts, anal retention.
Shadows in the cave lake,
wicked teeth and no eyes.
Glide smooth, serpent fish.
Celebrate darkness of vision,
an ancient realm, copper seam.
So pure, we existed before
heathen events of mutation.
One last curtain call;
an old blues man adjusts hiss steel teeth.
He takes the bit into his mouth
and rides ‘er one more time,
each unspecified event of madness.
(howling harmonica)
(this part sung)
I don’t care when the night-wind blows.
She gon’ say me a prayer.
She gone, she gone, she gone.
Tell ya ‘bout woman,
author of madness, priestess, witness.
Carry me to the killing ground.
Lay me on a field of fire.
My flesh won’t burn.
My flesh will not burn.
A mist of ghosts rise,
divided by distance and slaughtered anew.
They are blue and gray in the dawn,
boys wearing masks of men,
thin whiskered and hollow of cheek.
She gon’ pray us a prayer,
mark the end of our war,
mark the end of our war.
(harmonica moan)
A fisher of pearls probing your wound
of flesh, discovers a cache of fish eggs, roe.
The fisherman fertilizes them,
carries them away in a canning jar,
calls them sea monkeys.
He ends up joining a circus
where his life becomes an adventure,
a chance to be all he can be,
no idle passing of time.
Then there’s the plan to feed the homeless in China,
inspired by the bleached bones of home,
walked over and tossed aside.
Few see beyond the tinted glass,
pleased to be on their way to aid the less fortunate.
Who’s gonna shovel the elephant shit?
To youth I say,
rejoice in a ravenous feast of years,
your blood lust to have it all.
Hump your way toward oblivion.
Suck energy from the day.
Spit it into the faces from whence you came;
defecate on the courthouse steps.
Wiggle your ass silly and walk away.
Breathe deep your smoking revenge.
Soon enough you will bury those who made you and,
when you went too far, dug deep to arrange your bail.
A reoccurrence of dawn is no swift illusion
or less real, the morrow.
Too young for wisdom, old enough to know better,
climb onto your soapbox.
Wear them proud, your half-assed clothes.
Ah hell, nobody gonna pay the digger.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
goodness overlapped by sin,
jewels of your imperfections
worn as bracelets ‘round your thighs.
He steps into his shovel.
Stones sing; steel voices ring.
Yes, the morning dew clings
to the flesh and his face.
His face weeps sweat
at three by six and two yards deep.
A blackbird whispers:
Alms for the Digger
Will we finally remember to be satisfied of moment,
realize there is no surprise in time spent seeking back.
Mysterious connection, we of human invention
tend to view ourselves as extensions
of god beasts, anal retention.
Shadows in the cave lake,
wicked teeth and no eyes.
Glide smooth, serpent fish.
Celebrate darkness of vision,
an ancient realm, copper seam.
So pure, we existed before
heathen events of mutation.
One last curtain call;
an old blues man adjusts hiss steel teeth.
He takes the bit into his mouth
and rides ‘er one more time,
each unspecified event of madness.
(howling harmonica)
(this part sung)
I don’t care when the night-wind blows.
She gon’ say me a prayer.
She gone, she gone, she gone.
Tell ya ‘bout woman,
author of madness, priestess, witness.
Carry me to the killing ground.
Lay me on a field of fire.
My flesh won’t burn.
My flesh will not burn.
A mist of ghosts rise,
divided by distance and slaughtered anew.
They are blue and gray in the dawn,
boys wearing masks of men,
thin whiskered and hollow of cheek.
She gon’ pray us a prayer,
mark the end of our war,
mark the end of our war.
(harmonica moan)
A fisher of pearls probing your wound
of flesh, discovers a cache of fish eggs, roe.
The fisherman fertilizes them,
carries them away in a canning jar,
calls them sea monkeys.
He ends up joining a circus
where his life becomes an adventure,
a chance to be all he can be,
no idle passing of time.
Then there’s the plan to feed the homeless in China,
inspired by the bleached bones of home,
walked over and tossed aside.
Few see beyond the tinted glass,
pleased to be on their way to aid the less fortunate.
Who’s gonna shovel the elephant shit?
To youth I say,
rejoice in a ravenous feast of years,
your blood lust to have it all.
Hump your way toward oblivion.
Suck energy from the day.
Spit it into the faces from whence you came;
defecate on the courthouse steps.
Wiggle your ass silly and walk away.
Breathe deep your smoking revenge.
Soon enough you will bury those who made you and,
when you went too far, dug deep to arrange your bail.
A reoccurrence of dawn is no swift illusion
or less real, the morrow.
Too young for wisdom, old enough to know better,
climb onto your soapbox.
Wear them proud, your half-assed clothes.
Ah hell, nobody gonna pay the digger.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
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