The Lungs Of The Mountain
The days are pumped forth from the lungs of the mountain
Good morning! watch as the heaviest cloud falls into frost
The wolves crawl from dreams into forrest and field
Skinny, charming, and sore with the loss of a death in the family
The plague of blisters that keep is stretched in the sun
Moaning poetry and song, without pants, solid and lying in gravel
We illustrate our selves as if we were ghosts, and I love this
We swap words like we were swapping lice and disease
If this were war we would be friends, or lovers, dead or alone
The nights are governed by the eyeless and the armless
The sheets are torn into strips, turned into ribbons and tied to branches
Venus looks down as she smells the crushed bay leaf
She wonders how it feels to keep a record of time and history
Fires burn with fuel collected by different generations
The angry, the resigned, the creaky, the one frightened of direction
Birds make their nests on the ground, in the quartz and the soil
Shell fish are collected by the princesses while their parents are hanged
And wolves circle our country, skinny, upright, educated
Every autumn the soil deepens, blackens, and readies itself
A new forrest will be born, blacker and thicker than the one that stands
The circles below your blues eyes will draw lower, the creases longer
Remedies will be breached though friendship and betrayal
Like litters of dogs and schools of fish, give away everything to find the source
No doctor and no nurse will ever say you came here smiling
No witch and no axeman will ever say we left with no empire
A dollar for a halo, an apple for a horse, everything grows here
When the blood stops flowing to your limbs, when winter hits your face
When you are called the king of the cut of tongue when everything is distorted
Sing out to the Swallows, kick at the roots of the elm, taste the salt on your skin
There is a snake in your bed and a scorpion in your moon
That is nothing that the liquor can stop, nothing that Venus won't watch
But pray to the pavement, and sacrifice the blackboard
Write your name on the surf in the blood of the magpie
Collect your own army of wolves, collected from your dream and poem
Buy a velvet boat and sail to the clay shores of the eyeless and armless
Don't hide from that in your bed, don't set yourself apart from constellations
Your breath is steel, and if you are torn apart by your own convictions
No axeman can ever say you left us with no empire
Good morning! watch as the heaviest cloud falls into frost
The wolves crawl from dreams into forrest and field
Skinny, charming, and sore with the loss of a death in the family
The plague of blisters that keep is stretched in the sun
Moaning poetry and song, without pants, solid and lying in gravel
We illustrate our selves as if we were ghosts, and I love this
We swap words like we were swapping lice and disease
If this were war we would be friends, or lovers, dead or alone
The nights are governed by the eyeless and the armless
The sheets are torn into strips, turned into ribbons and tied to branches
Venus looks down as she smells the crushed bay leaf
She wonders how it feels to keep a record of time and history
Fires burn with fuel collected by different generations
The angry, the resigned, the creaky, the one frightened of direction
Birds make their nests on the ground, in the quartz and the soil
Shell fish are collected by the princesses while their parents are hanged
And wolves circle our country, skinny, upright, educated
Every autumn the soil deepens, blackens, and readies itself
A new forrest will be born, blacker and thicker than the one that stands
The circles below your blues eyes will draw lower, the creases longer
Remedies will be breached though friendship and betrayal
Like litters of dogs and schools of fish, give away everything to find the source
No doctor and no nurse will ever say you came here smiling
No witch and no axeman will ever say we left with no empire
A dollar for a halo, an apple for a horse, everything grows here
When the blood stops flowing to your limbs, when winter hits your face
When you are called the king of the cut of tongue when everything is distorted
Sing out to the Swallows, kick at the roots of the elm, taste the salt on your skin
There is a snake in your bed and a scorpion in your moon
That is nothing that the liquor can stop, nothing that Venus won't watch
But pray to the pavement, and sacrifice the blackboard
Write your name on the surf in the blood of the magpie
Collect your own army of wolves, collected from your dream and poem
Buy a velvet boat and sail to the clay shores of the eyeless and armless
Don't hide from that in your bed, don't set yourself apart from constellations
Your breath is steel, and if you are torn apart by your own convictions
No axeman can ever say you left us with no empire
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