La Dispute все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

So here goes,
One last letter now. One last attempt to make sense.
Who have I been writing to? I’m not sure anymore.
What have I been trying to accomplish?
It’s a mystery, I guess. Self-made secrecy.
Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
The struggle as an undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.
So, which voice is this then that I’ve been writing in? Is it my own or his?

Night fell on me writing this and I ran out of paper
so I crossed the name out at the top of the page.
Not sure why I’m even writing this. But I guess it feels right.
It sort of feels like I have to-like an exorcism.

I guess that makes me sound crazy but that’s alright.
Lately I feel like I might be, not that I’ve heard any voices or anything.
Just like that everyday kind, where you forget things you shouldn’t

Everybody wants a reason for everything.
It’s so much easier with someone or something to blame.

I’ve always struggled at the root of the problem.
Has it been absence or my constant lack of defense?

I’ve never spent a lot on finding a remedy.
I guess I figured that it hurt for a reason.

Third time writing you a letter, getting darker. I’m getting worse and worse.

I had a reason for the writing, but trying to exorcise my demons didn’t work.
To try to rid me of The worry and to purge you out of wonder for the future and the hurt.
I wrote a poem:

I’m increasingly aware I’ve been painting things in gray,
I’m increasingly alarmed by the pain,

So now tell me how your story goes. Have you ever suffered?
If so, did you get better or have you never quite recovered from it?
Did you find your lover laying in your bedroom with another and then
Did you let it hover over you and everything else well after the fact?
Show me all your bruises. I know everybody wears them.
They broadcast the pain–how you hurt, how you reacted.
Did cancer take your child? Did your father have a heart attack?
Have you had a moment forced the whole heart to grow or retract?

You still cross my mind from time to time. And I mostly smile.
Still so set on finding out where we went wrong and why.
So I retrace our every step with an unsure pen,
Trying to figure out what my head thinks, but
My head just ain’t what it used to be.
And then again,
What’s the point anyway?

We could blame it on our hands,
They lifted the drink to our mouths so we drank it. Or
We could blame it on our bodies,
They say, “We like the way we feel
When we get touched.”

You’ve got your fingers snared in my veins,
I think it’s time you pulled them out.

She forced a smile, said,
“Boy, come kiss my mouth—I’ll set you free.
You know that hope you’re holding to? It looks an awful lot like fear.
Now, you’re so quick to fall on failure, and so quick to raise your voice, like,
‘If I can’t find a mistake to blame, we didn’t have a choice.’

Oh, but you had option.
I was your chance to feel complete,

I heard the old man’s voice break, stutter once then stop it. I heard
A sentence started confidently halted by the sudden absence of a word.
Stumbled and he sputtered trying to find it back, something once so simple gone now. When he finally gave up told me, “Aw, it’s like hell getting old.”

When you came into the store, did you know you’d show me your scars?

I had a heavy heart, he carried a door, it’s shattered pane all wrapped in plastic and he asked if I could fix it, come by a little later help him put it back on hinges. “See, I’m far too old to lift it and it’s not for my house,
It’s my son’s.”

1978 - San Diego:

I'd just come out the other side of a relationship that blew up
I was angry, and disillusioned, and ultimately self-destructive.
I'd lost everything I believed in
I was as utterly, completely alone as I've ever been.
So I began going on walks.

It was out on the highway.
It was warmer than blood.
It was spaces and basements.
Faces brimming with love.
It was nightfall to daybreak.
Finding a new way
It was falling asleep at the wheel while awake.
It was wasting away; delay the promise of heartache,

Morning after snowstorm
Stand in the silence
Almost feel reborn all alone on the street
It’s a certain sort of stillness when the quiet surrounds you
The only sound your shovel on concrete

I remember those piles from the snow plows always seemed much bigger back when I was kid
Pushed all of the snow to the end of the driveway

Oh crashing airplane, where were you the day she left?

Underneath the laughs there lies a need
That nobody is getting.
And an honesty that doesn't stretch far enough
To show us all how much this will mean to us, my dear.
And when we're old we'll tell ourselves that we did
Everything that we could to save this.

Out where the stones lay like bones by the ocean,
Out where the waves crash contempt on the land.
Someone was trembling for fear of the tempest,
Somebody silently reached for their hand.
Said,
“Understand that if you’re cold, I’ll keep you warm.
And besides, there’s so much beauty in a storm.
So come down with me to the shore.

I knew it was far too late to walk out on the lake then
Halfway to the middle thawed I wasn’t doing all that great

Had I cut my hair short?
Had I grown my beard out long?
Had I gone to school or…?

Why do all my plans fall through?

Sure, I know that you are tired of hearing about it
But most repeat the same theme over and over again,
It's as if they were trying to refine what seems so strange
And off and important to them.

It's done by everybody
Because each must work out what is before them over and over again

Funny what you think of after a collapse
While lying in the dirt the first thing that comes back is never quite what you’d have guessed
And if you could have, you probably would’ve said you’d check if all your limbs were intact still and then try to get out

We played house with the neighbors in their basement
Sister made me husband she was older so I did her bidding
I remember once their dad came in said, “You think this is bad?
You don’t know the half.” And he laughed.

There was once a great kingdom, and its great king had a beautiful daughter who passed her days in solitude, weaving garments for the pleasure of her father. One day, while she was sitting beside the great river, peering across, she saw a handsome young shepherd boy leading his flock through the pasture. Immediately, she fell in love.
Thereafter, she became terribly disheartened, knowing that, due to her duties at the loom, she would be unable to pursue that love. The king, aware that by his bidding such despair had befallen her, felt great remorse, and arranged for her to marry the shepherd. There marriage was one of happiness from the start, and everyday thereafter they grew happier and happier. However, in immersing herself in her marriage, the princess had neglected her weaving and the great king became angry. Unable to reconcile with that anger, the great king banished each of the lovers to opposite sides of the great river, allowing them only to meet once each year: on the seventh day of the seventh month. On that day, a ferryman would carry the shepherd boy across the river to the princess, and return him home at day’s end. However, if the princess has not fulfilled her obligations at the loom the king floods the river, and the two can not meet.

(Crows, wipe the blood from the end of your claws. said the vulture, Lets gather like storms for the war.
Crows, as the night turns its skin into coal, Dark as corpses but cluttered with gold. They will label you thieves, wolves, and whores but you are nothing less than angels, cast down and covered in black.)

Aint this the bloodiest mess in the world? said the virgin, a torn little girl.
Boy, you went and made a sweet wreck of my soul, and Ive already forgiven you.

And blood was running down
Her dress in streams into her hands where she

Like a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in a film strip,
Faint glimmer of the past trapped in mother's old slides,
Sits still in the apartment while sifting through some pictures
Of the child that he once was and the sense of hope they framed.
"It's a shame,"

And I fear that fate while the humming from the street keeps me awake,

We move by instinct, darling

Let our hands be hatchets, let us

Wander blindly, swinging madly

In a forest made of flesh.

I say a drink might help me sleep, I say
I don’t sleep much at all these days, I say it’s cold,
Besides, I’m broken.
Hard as earth the love of the past,
The worth of the world has frozen
Still.
Like the sheet of ice collecting on the windshield of my car.
Where I caught my reflection frozen in the glass,

There are bridges over rivers
There are moments of collapse
There are drivers with their feet on the glass
You can kick but you can't get out
There is history in the rooms of the house

After dinner do the dishes
Mother hums

Another shooting on the southeast side.
This a drive-by, mid-day,
Outside of the bus stop, by Fuller and Franklin. Or near there.
Not far from the park. About a block from where the other shooting was last
month.
Or was it last week?

Shots were fired from an SUV heading northbound, Eastown,

y precious wife, I am in shambles
I am crumbling, I am
Was it something I did
Bid the tide to climb so high that it ripped our shore up
I can fix it, I swear
If you trust me
I am old and I am rusting but I care
I care

“My Precious Wife, I am in shambles. I am crumbling. I am—was it something I did bid the tide to climb so high that it ripped our shore up?

I can fix it, I swear, if you trust me, I am old and I am rusting but I care, I care.

My Precious Wife, we made a promise, pledged our flesh to be one. How can you doubt a love that stood so proud as we raised our children?

I believe in it still. It has faltered, and it is faded, but I know it’s there.

“I’ve come here as a man in shambles—worn out from begging on my knees. Please, I’m just trying to keep my family together. Now, when you saw you’re lover wore a ring around her finger, why didn’t you stop?

I have half a mind to make you hurt, to make you bleed, to make you suffer. I swear, if you’ve touched her—oh, heaven, forgive what I would do to you, you monster. And think about your children? They’ll never believe what you’ve done.

Listen, I’m begging you, back off. Let me rebuild all the things that you shattered.

She meant it, I swear that she meant it, she whispered so often, ‘Husband, I’ll always be here with you.’

I recall once on the church steps,
When I moved to kiss your chest,
How we paid such close attention
To each sweet and stuttered breath,
I should’ve stopped to paint our picture,
Captured honest pure affection,
Just to document the difference between attraction and connection.

I know that someday you'll be sleeping, darling, likely dreaming off the pain.
I hope you'll hear me in the streetlight's humming, softly breathing out your name.
I know that even with the seams stitched tightly, darling, scars will remain.
I say we scrape them from each other, darling, and let them wash off in the rain.
And when they run into the river, oh no, let the water not complain.
I swear that even with the distance slowly wearing out your name,
Your hands still catch the light the right way and
Our hearts still beat the same.

Yesterday alone I laid everything out on the carpet
Books, kitchen things, objects with specific purpose or none
Arranged them sideways in a grid on the floor there unmoored
Out of context and then considered it
First the whole picture, then everything individually
Humming along at the deadest pace imaginable
One object then another and then the next
And I wondered what they meant there

In the last quarter of the twentieth century
much of the world sat on the edge of an increasingly expensive theater seat
waiting for something momentous to occur.
Christian aficionados of the Second Coming scenario were convinced that,
after two thousand years, the other shoe was about to drop.
And five of the era's best-known psychics predicted
that Atlantis would soon reemerge from the depths.
To this last, Princess Leigh-Cheri responded,

They stored their passion in the creases in the corners of their mouths,
Every angle of light from the open window washed their aged faces out.

“Should we feel guilty? They said,
Should we feel guilty for this sin?
Lord, did we kill a man and woman just to lie here skin to skin?”

“I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy where I was. Oh,

I’ve been watching a slow thaw come around.
I’ve been waiting in the cold and hazy blue.
I’ve been driving alone out to the edge of town.
I’ve been thinking too much of you.

Last snowfall left splinters and some winters never end;
neither wane nor wear.
And sunshine is like lovers and some summers just pretend;

“Up, M’Lady--Pack your things, this place is not your home. Nor was it ever,
Sever every tie, tonight we ride. Tonight we ride.”

“And how we’ve trembled at the way that time’s assembled little fires of desire in the tundra of our skin.
So, do yourself a little favor, savor every time you waver for that shaking in my voice was only slyly feigned chagrin. Tonight we ride.”

“Oh, Lover, uncover. I know it’s warm beneath your sheets and there is ice along the streets but listen—Lover, we will recover. But we’ve no time to waste with meddling in affairs we’ve locked so tightly in our dreams. We are not clean, we are not pure, we can not rest until we’re sure. So, rob your pretty little eyes of sleep’s disguise. I’m at your bedside with a bucket full of lies. So, clear your ears and listen---

let the car drift some
Eye your uncomfortable pose in profile
The postures of long drives
That endless cycling of your numb and near sleeping parts

And you lean much harder than you need when the road curves
Swerve through traffic and the cracks in the ground
Every gesture you require of a drive like this night

I'm reading over your shoulders,
it says it in every line, in ever curve and crack.
it says it in every detail of your face,
unmistakably apparent in this dull light.
tracing a separate letter, forming a separate word.
twisting together to build the same beautiful message,
the same painful realization.
the cracks in your lips

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning,
Spring-cleaning his little home.
First with brooms, then with dusters;
Then on ladders and steps and chairs,
With a brush and a pail of whitewash;
Till he had dust in his throats and eyes,
And splashes of whitewash all over his black fur.

The lion isn't sacred when not sleeping near the lamb,
it is evil when it eats unless it's feeding from the damned,
all the children painted diagrams of god upon their hands,
hoping somewhere on this shaking earth they could find a place to stand.

it's a tyrant to the foreigners who've never seen the land,
they feel safer than a statue when they've got a spear in hand,
it is pregnant with the fury that the pain in life demands.

The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward the lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, it happens that melancholy arises in man’s heart: this is the rock’s victory. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: “Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well.”
“I conclude that all is well,” says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted.
All Sisyphus’ silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him.
The rock is still rolling.

Wildlife (2011)

Stained-glass and the choir sing out that strong and ceaseless chorus here.
So sweet the voices, sweep like leaves into the street.
On Eastern, a celebration carried on for God and hope and refuge
To keep each other, life; give shelter from the storm. And keep warm.
The congregation gathers outside in the parking lot, each service done
They keep the old hymn rolling on and on and

I think I saw you in my sleep, darling,
I think I saw you in my dreams you were
Stitching up the seams on every broken promise
That your body couldn’t keep.
I think I saw you in my sleep.

I thought I heard the door open, oh no,
I thought I heard the door open but

Sunday Morning still laid innocent in sheets,
barely half asleep.
Sunday Morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street
into a parking lot.

Sunday Morning broke and dragged me out of bed,
slightly less asleep.
Sunday Morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head

I promised Colin I’d keep writing, and
That’s the only promise I’ve kept, but
I have no regrets. Like,
Your empty mailbox?
It doesn’t bother me.
Not at all.

And I promised you I’d come visit soon.

Now speak of anger,
forget all the fears you've kept about love and sex and death and faith,
erased, or swinging sweet from around her neck and between her breasts.
Let every lonely body finally break its fear of flesh and say,
"How strange it must've been back when we shook at the sight of sweat."
Let our worries wander out of like water streaming from a spring,
and sing of all the things our heads have failed to ruin yet.
There's so much they have failed to ruin yet.

I felt your sickness brush against my arm as I walked by you—
Heard your voice but couldn’t tell that it was you.
And, slowly, watched your sickness slip away into a place that I’d once feared but
I was not afraid this time.
So I gave chase and found it, finally, slowly feeding from your head,
And from my friends, and from my family, so
I grabbed it by the neck.
“For every lover you have ruined…”

I'll hold you as you have held me
You've held me in your heart
We'll be, we'll be set free from
We'll be set free from fear
We'll be set free
We've felt our failures
We've watched our passions leave
But we're still breathing on

After sundown, before sleeping, I am the worst of me. I am a mess of these
Old themes and the murmur of half-dreams whisper seductively and
Stage scenes.

It's fear fiction, these visions, caught somewhere between delusion and prophesy.
What I haven't done, what I've wanted to, and what I fear you have
Becomes reality here.

Don't call this an art project.
This is science, this is progress.
And don't pretend these are heartfelt words, we are
Children dressed as surgeons but disturbed by the sight of our scars.
And now we carry scalpels to trace the scarring resting somewhere
On the line between my house, your heart and into your home.
Where you lay sleeping like a ceiling fan in winter,
Gently turning as the wind reaches it's fingers through the window

I spoke too soon, it seems,
For you made a home in my dreams.
While I slept you kept running yourself through my head,
Like, “I won’t be dead yet.”
I said, “You don’t understand. We had no control.
They stole it; love’s been so unfair to me.”
“But see, boy, that’s my point.
You must move on.”

We will kneel down in the reeds beside the water
We will float two paper boats down slowly in
The river spiderwebs the map like breaking glass like here might shatter
Send us scattering like seeds into the wind
From the cattails bursting, slamming on our skin
As we chase our vessels racing toward the lake, I start to shake
When you wade down ankles bare now to go swim

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

Oh, you've a pretty mouth,
leave your lips to linger on my skin and
kiss me one last time
i will roll off your tongue like a whisper in the winter
sleeping in the sutures of the city's skin
make yourself remember me in cold and concrete.

when will you realize this city/your demons make(s) you real

Walked into find you sitting in your kitchen, softly singing,
“Someone carry me away.”

If there’s always someone leaving.
Will we ever stop believing that the winter fits us perfectly?
Isn’t someone always coming?
Once the summers up and running
Won’t you feel warm with me?

At times I've shouted out unprovoked, at the world and you,
Just to see if the people around me react.
Sometimes I think they're all acting,
At times I'm scared that I'm acting too. Like,
My movements or stage directions?
Was that a change in topic or a beat in a scene?
Have I been taking my emotional cues from a script I wrote at sixteen?

What will I find?
Some sacred thing to help me handle the tragedy?
Or did I once-Did I have it and lose it?

No one should ever have to walk through the fire alone.
No one should ever have to brave that storm. No,
Everybody needs someone or something.

what will i find?
some sacred thing to help me handle the tragedy?
or did i once-did i have it and lose it?

no one should ever have to walk through the fire alone.
no one should ever have to brave that storm. no,
everybody needs someone or something.