hahaha we meet again, what the fuck dude?  how many profiles do you have? actually don't tell me...

the music to this point without lyrics does an amazing job telling a story.

gotta spam this up.  second play through, this resonates with me deeply

highest praise. I'm using his "Angeles" finger picking pattern...think he got it from Paul Simon...I don't know how he does it so fast though. It's tricky.

my love for thee, 
an anguished aught,
of what MUST be,
and yet Is not,

my love for thee,
the place where thought,
unravels me,
 in cloying clot,

so all my strings are set to strum,
in this place where we become,

here I'll wait...

my love for thee,
the sweetest scar,
a molting light,
a mourning star,

my little Lie-a-lot,
I still cry a lot,
I STILL cry for you...
...I do,

so all my strings are set to strum,
in this place where we become,

here I'll wait...

My little Lie-a-Lot


Magdalena Mirror was a saint and a seer,
 and a sin-eating scapegoat divine,
 for her sickness brought health and her need it brought wealth,
 and her love?... it brought never you mind,

With her mind over matters and her torn blessed tatters, 
 and her moth dusted garbage bag gown,
 will she hold a whole nation in rapt contemplation
 of the angles that fangle her frown,

She was swaddled in thorns from the day she was born,
 when they plastered her into the casting,
 in her stead it is said that the blood she had bled
 was bestower of life ever-lasting,

At the cleft of her cough, cadavers became soft,
 and her sneezing caused freezing to warm,
 with a vomiting wretch, true life's breath did she fetch,
 through the puking rebuke of a charm,

The reprise of her cries could unpry blinded eyes,
 so they kept her in burdens bereft,
 and they opened their ears as they drank from her tears, 
 which could heal both the dumb and the deaf,

the refrain of her pain could make one young again,
 so the Everyone lent her its ear,
 and the song that she sang was a high-hunger-pang,
 from a place beyond hatred or fear,

A place where the There, from the trees to the air,
 is calling, clothed in your own thought,
 again and again, the familiar refrain,
 in a language the tongue has forgot,

Jain Vangles 


Comments

Jain Vangles

spoopy shallowday

spoopy shallowday

spoopy shallowday

spoopy shallowday

PhilZajic

kodiak.

the Beards and the Bees