Blackbird Raum все тексты (слова) песен, переводы, видео, клипы

02 - Iceworm
the crescent house the crooked oar that strove to swim but broke the shore it swept us up a lantern for the crescent house the crooked oar it dropped me to the very door passed out on the pinebox floor liquored us to clean the sore it dropped me to very door I can't sleep aaaah that's enough I've remembered this before the dreary task of living's chore hazy thoughts then thought no more of I've remembered this before

To delete the process running my life
All that's left is to sharpen the knife
Cut the rope that binds our legs
Separate the kings from their own heads

It is time to spit out the air
Wash the dried blood from our hair
Stitch one another back together

an adder wrapped it's neck around me
the serpent in it's posture, is draining life from me
there is water at the bottom of the sea
beneath the plastic islands, and white chemical stream
I asked for water and they gave me gasoline
they said gasoline's expensive and water's often free
I asked for water and they gave me gasoline
I asked for water and they gave me gasoline

the sky is limitless but the land is not
the void is plentiful, the world is not

in the sky there is no chair
no throne among the starry vault
no king who does smile or frown
the watchful cosmic shepherd
is a vanity of man

Birds collect the carrion
Severed limbs litter the battlefield
We’re running like rats from a burning sky
But it’s nothing to warm our bodies
Lie awake, knife in hand
For the few remaining angels
Pray or talk to yourself
Someone told me that it might help

Bonnie’s heart sank when she considered the horror of the lives that most men led, trapped for nine ten hours a day in the slave gangs of traffic, the uniformed peonage—suit and tie and digital wristwatch—of the office galleys, the nerve-wracking drudgery of the on-going never-ceasing destruction and reconstruction, backhoes, front-end loaders, jackhammers, wrecking balls, freight trucks, nailguns, concrete culverts, asbestos insulation, I-beams, hardware, software, application forms, medical claim forms, auto insurance forms, income tax forms, garbage, mud, dust, sludge, whole monoclines of paper and anticlines of carbon (press hard) and synclines of silent despair. The world of ”jobs”.
-Edward Abbey

Terrified women are flooding the offices
One’s leg is crushed beneath a heavy iron gate
People are vanishing leaving only their shoes
Unanswered texts silhouettes burned into the wall
Legions of mindless cops now arrive, loudly beating their batons

wake in the morning, the hold of the anchor
the walk of the cunning, the hole in the ship
it's easy to be firemen in a house made of brick
spit the pus from your mouth, you bastards
you ruin my dress when you talk
given a sentence, laid on a plate
shake hands and eat the shit
the acquitted were hard wrung through a dripping cloth

I look down on the city
It's burning, It's burning
Everything's prettier at night
The flames are all leaping
they're eating the buildings
Orion lets give her a chance
The stars stars are all twinkling
they're mirroring the dancing

The pillars of the world were shaking like the legs of a drunk
Hot winds ripped the hats off all the ladies all about town that day
Then they caught us ran us ragged beat us bloody put us in a dirty cage
Now we're screaming bloody murder we are starving won't see the ocean side again
Continents and mountain ranges boats out in the harbor,
rivers clouds and cities all aflame
the sun went out the sky went red the horses our dancing in their skins
the taste of ash and sulfur on our lips

crumbs from the table have fallen so few so not to catch an eye
reckless and thinkless and felled to the knees to gather before before the broom
what is left amongst the spire that is as tall as the lowest cloud you could reckon the height of
hanging on a branch here every time(though never fell so far)
from which we lift these blistered hands only to curse
the families get nothing but porridge of maize and shacks at the end of farms
cash crops commissioned to pay of the debt and poisoned on the job
driving the mules to death in the wheat then leaving us follow with leather to eat

Come to take water
And don’t get away.
Bringing in medals and flags to hang
From the east, saddled burglary.
This is life under the moon.
Commander makes home with Sand Creek

Weavers, false weavers!

The monologue at the end:

Our sardine fishermen work at night in the dark
of the moon; daylight or moonlight
They could not tell where to spread the net,
unable to see the phosphorescence of the
shoals of fish.
They work northward from Monterey, coasting

do not set music to these words
the hour is late and there is no song I'd like to hear
open wires and not the others, red the wine and black the color
the time of the iceworm almost past

I'm in sudden trouble
breathing under ovens
like grist for the mill

I fill my mouth up with air, honey in the hair
I fill my life up with time, asleep in the vine, whiskey and wine
Who makes the wind blow, I don't care, my eyes roll back in my head
I'm just walking in circles I see the lines in chalk on the ground
One day this will all come down
Someday this will all come crashing right down
So go on with your life we will bring you down

Like tractionless wheels
spin in place and throw up mud
the perforated lung
thick smoke presses down
it’ll be phoned in
bogged down inertial stench.

Decaffeinated law

cracked a whisper from within the spine to give a signal to the other side
this house of god holds a traitor whose missing hands ar eleft untied
cross the keyhole cross the latches cross every line that divides the factions
unstrap the bomb from your chest, we're smart enough to get away from them
we'll find fight to struggle for another day when the fall of the gate seems a lifetime away
body by the judge will get sent out to riverhead
is the blame still not lay when the bail has been set and the judges at home just asleep in their beds
the convict race now still resides in lucasville

in the valley of the lizards past the broken TV sets
a flower grows on top of a hill that’s never trampled yet

but the tread of tearing tires
and the smoke of leather fires
and the buzz of information in the air and in the wires

the sleepy old distraction of the glowing screen alone

The silent the severed the path of raven the words are dead
One thousand ladies in ribbon all adorned, underneath
the sun underneath the earth underneath an awful banner
And golden trumpets. they're braying like clockwork mules
in a time of plague, in a time of war
The poisoned landscape defiled by the factory pipe, the
sickened land the sickened sky. Cold eyes are spying from the
top of the pyramid:

Burn wounds, legless dolls, houses charred and empty
Flood lights, uniforms, haul our families off in trucks
What hills are those we see so far? Those hills so high and fair
Those are the hills of the homes we left
I miss my little sister so, can't we go back and look?
Sorry your sister's gone for good
See that tip of the land she said, that is where we must walk
and there find passage out to the sea

above a frozen plain a dirty cloud is rearing up and we wolves can only watch
of all these falling lights the brightest ones are scarring up and scars you cannot change
all of us still standing must learn to leap up without landing
and quicken on the wind

when they're calling
lets not follow
then you'll see us

Our master's gone; we've stole our master's horses
And stole away, running
If we return we shall be drawn and quartered
At Tyburn cross, hung
The ladies fair who ride the skies above us
Will come to swing their whips
To lash the backs of all the painted gentry who
Have burned runes black.

black fly, white tile, bleed oil, red tile
I’ve been confused, and do not grieve to admit it
those who are so true convinced are standing on a leaking ship
concealed, by some hidebound definition, the sand we’re standing on will show us, that it’s not some rock that owns us
now, endless summer dries you up, underneath the browning sky
you live where birds don’t chose to fly
but I’ve seen, the rat among the dreams
the fly in every ointment and the crude oil in the cream

In others' mouths the scraping of rocks, who walk a rope
run along the ground Into the basket
Whither the sky is fatted with ice, come as the earth grows
richer of blood - The doe is in season
We pull our teeth out laying down in easy places we
thicken the air with talk but cover our eyes up with our hands
They're shooting the wolves from helicopters can you believe that
Out in the wide world the wildest ones are vanishing quickly

Each colder day, with stones in the kettle to last you till may
Gathering the damp wood to spark in the rain
When summer's gone she lay with the gray queen
Huntsman walks ragged of cloth, ragged of war
In the winter dark, the shatter glass dog, it fell by the side.
There the cavern, fire will guide her
The old woman, charred coal burner
Slower to take, walk with the old ones the edge of the lake