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Morning, Noon, and Night

from Among The Ruins, Rejoice by Love And Squalor

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lyrics

Soft morning, city!
I’ll wait. And I’ll wait.
And then if all goes. What will be is.
And so here is the religion that cannot pay for itself
Amid the rising tithe of debt and boilerplate,
Amid the sheets where the sweat has frozen,
Pulled loose from the corners,
Amid the dirty scattered clothes,
Amid the routine fate.
(It is the softest morning that ever I can remember me,) And so where others have fallen
(One in a thousand of years of the nights.) I shall lie down as well.
(And the clash of our cries when we spring to be free.) With brain ablaze in frantic fever,
(All so often and all the same to me.) There go the bells!
Red sky trends towards violet: Skin contracts, nerves keeps expanding.
Great the rejoicing in this gilded age of rust rebranded.
I still note the years or hours with all the interest I can feign.
Thirty winters spent constructing a sudden yelp of pain.
And now in nightfall’s sable folds
There will not be found any sea,
So make a life in the charming derision,
In the seductive absurdity.
(It is the softest morning that ever I can remember me,) And so where others have fallen
(One in a thousand of years of the nights.) I shall lie down as well.
(And the clash of our cries when we spring to be free.) With brain ablaze in frantic fever,
(My leaves have drifted from me.) There go the bells!
Violet sinks into the black: Skin contracts, nerves keeps expanding.
Great the rejoicing in this gilded age of rust rebranded.
I still note the years or hours with all the interest I can feign.
Thirty winters spent constructing a sudden yelp of pain.
Here is where I have led at last: (O bitter ending!)
The wearing teeth, the chapping skin. (They’ll never see, nor know, nor miss me.)
And henceforth shall I be led (And it’s old and old it’s sad and old it’s sad)
In desperation, all possible poverties.
(And it’s old and old it’s sad and old it’s sad)
And if these thoughts cannot be changed,
They should, at least, be known.
But there remains no conveyance:
(And weary I go back.)
No waves, no wind,
No coherent message to be blown.
To lie within a cold apartment’s walls,
Stained and spinning
To stare in dull-eyed comprehension
At insignificant things.
Or now to march the mantra
The crack and pop, hiss and skip:
Justdontgetsickjustdontgetsickjustdontgetsick
Ad nauseum.
A sick of accomplishment. The garbled end of a day.
All to imagine something holy in a staggering cliché.
As though all the world could be resolved in a couplet.
As though all the world could be resolved in a slurring song of doubt.
And I am passing out.

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from Among The Ruins, Rejoice, released September 22, 2013

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