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I can understand the haggar eyes

Of the old

Dry wrecks

Broken by seas of which they could drink nothing

 

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Rolling Stones, Hate to see you go

Pearl Jam, You are

Jimy Hendrix, Stone Free

Screeming Trees, for celebration past

Mark Lanegan, Phantasmagoria blues

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Arcade Fire, Month of May

Kristin Hersh, your dirty answer

Arab Strap, There is no ending

Van Morrison, Mystic of the east

Donovan, Barabajagal

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Epidermal macabre

Indelicate is the who loathes

The aspect of his fleshy clothes, –

The flying fabric stitched on bone,

The vesture of the skeleton,

The garment neither fur not hair,

The cloak of evil and despair,

The veil long violated by

Caresses of the hand and eye.

Yet such is my unseemliness:

I hate my epidermal dress,

The savage blood’s obscenity,

The rags of my anatomy,

And willingly would I dispense

With false accoutrements of sense,

To sleep immodestly, a most

Incarnadine and carnal ghost.

Ben Harper, The will to live

Michael Franti, Feelin’ free

Sixto Rodriguez, Can’t get away

Gregory Porter, French african queen

Tom Waits, Eyeball kid

Mark Lanegan, St Louis elegy

Bob Dylan, Gates of eden

Outlined Epitaphs

8.

Yes, I am a thief of thoughts

not, I pray, a stealer of souls

I have built an’ rebuilt

upon what is waitin’

for the sand on the beaches

carves many castles

on what has been opened

before my time

a word, a tune, a story, a line

keys in the wind t’ unlock my mind

an’ t’ grant my closet thoughts backyard air

it is not of me t’ sit an’ ponder

wonderin’ an’ wastin’ time

thinkin’ of thoughts that haven’t been thunk

thinkin’ of dreams that haven’t been dreamt

an’ new ideas that haven’t been wrote

an’ new words t’ fit into rhyme

( if it rhymes, it rhymes

if it don’t, it don’t

if it comes, it comes

if it won’t, it won’t)

 

no I must react an’ spit fast

with weapons of words

wrapped in tunes

that’ve rolled through the simple years

teasin’ me t’ treat them right

t’ reshape them an’ restring them

t’ protect my own world

from the mouths of all those

who’d eat it

[…..]

 

a Mercedes’s engine

will take us

elsewhere in town,

Janis,

wound long hair

no longer crying

nervous fingers on scrim

scratched desires a blow

pocket and liquid

all our good expectations

for nothing