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Master & Margarita Inspired by the book "The Master & Margarita" by MIKHAIL BULGAKOV: No matter what you name here, it don't exist. And only fools can be suffered to persist through unfaithfulness. It's when credence comes to trial and loses hold. I'm done, I'm undone. Only Margarita can recover me (душа). Fighting for my soul and my dignity (считаю). Only Margarita can recover me (душа). Fighting for my soul and my dignity (считаю). My love's always open and your love's almost done. Keep on, keep on; critics are wrong.
The Devil Takes A Hand A retelling of the book "Crime & Punishment" by FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY: Waste another night. I beat my head against the wall. Lost in wrong and right. I can’t be held responsible for things a man might do in another life. Pulled to the other side. Who’s to say I’m not that person? Destiny, not pride. I count the paces down the prospekt―the axe fell hard and true on a summer night The Devil takes a hand without a fight. In Siberia, it’s quiet. My thoughts louder than a lion. Here I stay while Sonja prays that our love won’t grow cold in the blowing wind. Tucked under a stone―haunted dreams of feeble horses Fevered and alone―paranoia fueled, remorseless Sister don’t come ‘round, I’m begging you; Mother’s heart would break to know the truth. Shows me what I hide. My tarnished beauty, she forgives me. She held me as I cried. The verses speak of tender mercy. Kiss the ground and face what I have inside. As they all laughed I knew I’d saved my life.
Picking Bones Dedicated to JOSEPH CAMPBELL: I asked my father, "What is our history?" "Some things are known, some things are mysteries." Snails and bones and ancient sea creatures. It's a metaphorically comparable anomaly. As I'm picking bones trying to dig a little further just to see. We're all picking bones, looking for another living history. From the water they were born but brought ashore to land. The bones of all their many forms followed after them. There's one in the hem of mother. There's one in the road. Many more unknown. For the stars gleam together. Forms change and ache. What to become if number one is question more than fate. Snails and bones and ancient sea creatures. ---Wake him slowly as the soul regains. The stars reminding the tone of your energy.//We speak at frequencies above perception. What's it mean to reach reception?//Money, haters, lost connections, perverts, liars, numbs. Those (not the-ones-you-know) people. Things that are wrong.---Snails and bones and ancient sea creatures. It's a metaphorically comparable rarity. We're all picking bones trying to figure if we ever even lived. As I'm picking bones trying to figure if it mattered what I did.
The Memory Remains Dedicated to the death poems of PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY: Seasons upon the remains. Eternal the memory remains. Turning my whole life o'er you. Seasons upon the remains. Eternal the memory remains. Turning my whole life toward you. Time is ever-changing; it's passing and it's waiting. My time is coming, too. Life is ever-dying―the thought of it is frightening, too. Crawling to you. Seasons falling, seasons crawling, too. Seasons passing to bring us back again. I'm alive, I'm alive inside your head.
Raygun Dedicated to THE CONSTITUTION: Your time of influence has passed. Of course you knew it wouldn't last. Old Statesman came on much too fast. Your memories like broken glass. You should have been a star. In bleakest times you made us laugh. You showed us things you shouldn't have. We trickled down in selfish math. And held our breath until we crashed. You should have been a star. Look how lucky we are. It could have been that angel on your shoulder let you down. You should have been a star. Look how lucky we are. You should have been a star. Look how lucky we are. You should have been a star. It could have been that angel on your shoulder let you down. You should have been a star.
The Sea & Earth Gave Birth To Wonder Dedicated to ROBERT BURNS: Sae true, my love, my ain sae true, love. The sea is calling you. The wind is hollering; her cut-throat opening in song, out of tune. Tis true, my dear, she's calling tae wimble her weaving loom. The boat sways in black waves tethered frae fallow tae toom. But respicere, my dear, she's nosing the sand. Ne'er ween, but weet; I will follow you. Transcending thought where we lay. Sae if you must go, sae if I must stay: Narry the way, ferry the sea, narry the wait, and marry to me.
Into Grey Adapted from "Vigil" by WALTER DE LA MARE : Here in the night the fire burns low. Hours into days into years and into grey faded ashes go. I try to see your face but somber is the glow. And slow the fire that lends its light to no one’s desire. I only feel your eyes. Your eyes know. Can’t look away. I can’t let go. Dark in this night and you again, you’re like a ghost. Your holy stare and shadowy hair block out the light we cannot share. The one I love.
Body In The Clay Dedicated to CARL JUNG: On the passage closer to the fountain. There are holes in the clay where you lay and lay―ruptures, gaps, tender imprints―in openings you resist (dawnings missed). Your body is the clay: miles of skin circling away. Recount each step w/ grave parley and fall out of your own recital. In fractured narrative and fractioned standing, tripped in the clay where you’ve laid unclaimed muck, fossils, bootless imprints. You insist. One foot where you want to be, one stuck in identity; sucked in pretension of knowing the path you take. Your body in the clay: mingling wounds that run away, dripped on fingers pushed against the gravity you resist. But this weight was already here, thick in the clay where you lay unclaimed grit (tender imprints). Your cast, your palette, your complexities may sink the self but elude the drowning. Your body molds the clay: exchanging skin, fostering shape; open-worked to air abandoning, bored and holed to suffer healing. And oh, the beauty your wilderness will be: your seasons blooms, your seasons leaves; exchanging skin, planting seeds; running waters, dips and peaks. Yet what scares you scares me, too. If I can’t find a way to see the root (my shadow’s comforting) to embody or to clay, there’s nobody in the play. To the body in the clay: sink in the clay, play in the clay, stay in the clay. Everybody needs to play. Your body is the clay.
In The Sun Dedicated to BRAM STOKER: I'm in the sun. I think we love you. Shine on as you do. We can't be one. That's always been true. Go on. You would. In the spotlight, you've got a long fall from the moment to where the shadows fall. Pick up the pace; the light is changing. Play with the way and the ray changing. In all the crowded places you only want space, but then space has it's distance. In distance you're not further away. Come on in into the sun.
Produced by Constantine Hondroulis and Lesley Ann Fogle
Recorded/Mixed at Hear No Evil hearnoevil.us
Mastered by Tom Boyer at GBS Records
Memory Remains mastered by Harold LaRue
Artwork by Stephen Swartz stephenswartz.com