I love my fingers raw.
And that is why I am in another band.
so this makes 4.
Red Pill Down, Bipolarity, ...a season for dying, and now
Guerilla TransmissionIt's like a more rocked out soulful version of Red Pill Down. I finally got around to reading the
Lyrics, and I have to say.. They're pretty god damn good. Wade, the singer has been through some shit. Do yourself a favor and go read a few.
Here's one song:
PulsationBy Franklin Wade David Jennings 96 linesNo pulse.
If ever I wished for a transformation
I would be remiss
Not to think of your still heart.
It has pounded away in its lonely dark crevice
Never questioning seclusion.
It has worked tirelessly
Through these years,
Through the drunkenness,
Through bitter nights without heat,
The choosing between lights or rent,
Borrowing, to payoff borrowing,
While weeping at the campfire stove,
That sits on your dirty cracked linoleum.
It has continued
Through pills,
Whole bottles of pills, my fingers in your mouth,
Entangled, melting, gasping, grabbing, and why me.
It has beat,
Through hunger pangs, and children with pangs,
And next door neighbor's children with pangs.
Thumping through
X's at the door,
At 3:00, 4:00, 5:00 and 5:15 a.m.
High on chemicals and full of self-pity,
Begging for life to disappear in front of 5 and 8 year olds,
That already get it.
He is screaming
"I hate you, I hate them, and I hate life," over and over,
Yelling at the stucco ceiling at GOD,
"Kill me motherfucker,
You weak motherfucker!"
Your heart,
Pleading for normalcy.
Hospital visits,
1, 2, and 3 week ones,
January, February, March, and on.
The 1st and 15th
Food Stamps,
The Sisters.
The Sisters with their goddamn cheese, tubs of peanut butter,
And bread,
And being accused of fraud, the government
Declared you made over their allowance for assistance.
Not enough dependants, or dependency - put your name in the paper,
More humiliation, more embarrassment, more, more, and more.
Stealing on the job, drinking too much, much too much,
Much too much.
More of The X.
He's living through car crashes
While trying to run over his new girlfriend
With a car that wouldn't fit up a flight
Of stairs,
Living his life, without paying child support,
In and out of county,
ECI, Hagerstown Cut,
Patuxent Institute, your house,
Your porch--your stoop--your mind--your life.
The kids are naked,
Boiling pots of water to fill the sink and bathe,
The kids are screaming,
And small, boiling pots of water,
You are working,
The kids are small with keys around their necks.
The kids are smaller between the 7th and 14th,
You work without lunch,
You flutter from low blood sugar,
All the while working for other's pulsation
For $85.93 a week,
The kids got to have clothes,
The kids got to have shoes,
The boy gets rubber shoes,
And steals his friends', they were leather.
To make you a star at school,
The boy fights for your pulsation,
You are crying at lunch again,
Ends are not meeting,
Beginnings are fading.
No ways or means.
No math.
You go to the bar at night
To score free drinks from abandoned callers.
They watch dirty pool, and catch
Your empty ink eyes shifting
Towards a tiny wall mirror, clandestinely checking
For smudged black mascara.
They watch
The rise and fall of your chest
As your heart pretends to live
Through sunny eventless days,
Like a first day of life in arms,
Rocking back and forth
Huddled in blankets,
Sleeping.
In the palm of my hand that sits upon your chest-
No pulse.
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lunar_strain's journal
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