scratchy guitars; shaky vocals

» highest in charts:   # 630   (126,791 songs currently listed in Acoustic)
» highest in sub-genre:   # 111   (29,267 songs currently listed in Acoustic > Acoustic General)

I wrote a love letter on a butterfly,
Tied her into my cursive mire.
The intention was in the ink; it poisoned her wings.

I am so sorry for my rhetorical love
I’m sorry for my treatise on freedom,
For my heart full of harem in my despotic kingdom.

I had a premonition at an intersection and chased the ambulance home.
We drove hemophiliac; the guilt spilled down the road.
The third week in November, remember
His priestly fingers taking off her clothes.
The sun went for broke for a Midwestern insight
It bled her a red massacre, bled her an African twilight

We rose for water and discourse and set for wine and intercourse
Now expatriate her, play her like a ghost note
Cleave the lullabies off her lips, let my sex be silent of this.

Take comfort in the skin
‘cause you never know when someone will put a light to our wicks.
Prayers are gonna go off like bombs
When we dismantle our gods
Take shelter in your grotto,
Drink heat and rise, live by candlelight.

I was coming into my eightieth season, watching planes torch Manhattan.
Every siren in the city was taking back its sound.
You held my hand grenade heart insisting that love’s not war
When you could only throw so far.

Everyone cries in a separate language
And you’re among the nations
Where the tears that border me
Count for nothing.
So I paid off my love with counterfeit tongue
And fled your country

We donated our organs to this,
Our hearts to the drugs and mistress
In the event that we crashed.
We’d spend the rest of our transplanted lives trashed
In someone else’s deathbed, soaked in her whiskey and sweat.

There’s an imprint of your face in the sheets
From the night you stayed with me.
The stations of your suicide
the fetal positions of withdrawal and sickness,
The constellations of nails in our crosses, the stillness.