A first glimpse. A debut album will be released later this year. This song is a bare-bone one shot take, guitar and vocals all into a single mic.

WALKING THE WORDS

The poison of apples have turned from their roots,
worms picking birds off their bones,
out of the skulls there’s no more good songs,
to bring your love back home, to bring your love back home.

Bullets will rain from buffalo men,
the cowards which no whore would claim,
who might rape their sheets or butcher their bed,
but no one remembers their name.

Lay down your eyes there’s no need to see what next,
nothing can catch you the fall that has no rest, and
who needs purpose, it's just light upon your hands,
the lines of a paper can’t walk the words, a poem can’t stand.

It's a terrible feast with nothing but teeth,
a ravenous murder of beaks,
wearing a crown of featherless wings,
who once were sparrow kings.

Who needs to taste every good under evil tongues, there's
no need to know which flower grows each fawn, and
your black eyes unfrozen from the dark, 
all good storms feed the lightning to the static heart.

Play me the song of birds that need no skies,
put me to sleepless dreams without lullabies,
a souless symphony that needs no bow,
a gift without a box, just your soul.

The wild skins will drum like elephant guns,
the treacherous ties of black suits,
the poor little pistols of rich little thieves,
who never find their youth.

Don’t say you love me, don’t you speak those hideous words,
its a slaughter for hides, to quaint to be overheard;
like skeleton houses, the corpses of the plains
like rivers once bent, the breathless reeds of drowning bands.

Play me the song of birds that need no skies,
put me to sleepless dreams without lullabies,
Souless symphonies that needs no bows,
a gift without a box, just your soul.

Lay down your eyes there’s no need to see what comes,
nothing can bring you the falls that knows no sun,
and who needs purpose in the way light touches land,
the lines of a paper can’t walk the words a poem can’t stand.

Walking the Words

"A Penny Spent"

She buttons down the sycamore leaves pressed in a bow,
thread and pencils, bones of wings, her photographs of snow -
tears they come, tears they fall, roll down like wilting suns,
she saved her every common cent but all of her’s been spent.

She draws a string through charms and rings, and throws her purse away
she needs no pens, not even maps, there’s nothing to be said
never is she coming back, the days will wash away
memories like Russian dolls, one inside them all.

This fucking town is sick and poisoned, so many small of heart and mind.

She understands the difference between dollars and souls,
one is poor when one is rich but neither did she know -
tears they come, tears they fall, and sting like angry wasps;
death be born and never waived, another penny saved.

That fucking town is sick and poisoned, everyone small of heart and mind;

She plants her hands into the earth, like cedar roots break streets
and crawls into the world above, the garden of the deep
Never is she coming back, she’ll hunt the little kings,
memories like russian dolls, one inside them all.

That fucking place is sick and heartless, so many small of thoughtful mind,
Penny saved her every common cent, but all of her’s been spent.

A Penny Spent

This is original and not, it's my take on the traditional 'Twa Sisters' ballad which goes back to the 16th century or more (If you've never heard of it, read more here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Twa_Sisters)  Many artists over the years have done their variations, often it is a rather happily sung tune though the tale is rather grim. This is my version of the lyrics, and the music is quite dark, slow, and yes, meditative 10 mins long. All live one take guitar.  

There were two sisters by the sea, called the Wind and the Rain.
One pushed the other down in the waves, crying, "Oh! The dreadful Wind and Rain!"

That boy had gave the young one a ring, didn't give her anything.
Didn't give her one damn thing.

In the dreadful wind and rain.

She floated up into the river, in oh, the wind and the rain.
'That ain't no garbage there,' said Old Ben sitting under the bridge.
He dragged her up on the bank side and took off that shining ring,
then kicked her back out in the water.

In the dreadful wind and rain!
Oh the dreadful wind and rain!

An old one found her, washed up stream.
Oh, the wind and the rain.
He carved tuning pegs from her long finger bones and a violin from her breast.
He cut thirty strands of her long dark hair and made a fine fine bow.
And the sound of that thing - oh it would melt away the greediest heart
of stone!
But the only tune that violin plays, is
Oh, the dreadful wind and rain!
Oh, the dreadful wind and rain!
Oh, the dreadful wind and rain!
Oh, the dreadful wind and rain!

Dreadful Wind and Rain

We were once sparrows...now we're a murder of crows

We Were Once Sparrows

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