Produced, Engineered, & Mixed by Taylor Blythe, Indianapolis
Art Direction/Design by Conner Jones
to take this goddamn view of hyperbolic, mourning praise and etch it deep inside our veins,
like the syringe we use to get a cheap thrill; as long as tribute wine will never spill
This saccharine dream causes cancer in the best of us slaves to a breath behind breathing.
Are you ever sure of Him besides regret? When like vultures, they pray on our death.
As the blood drips red through the carpet, predatory eyes have a mind on a culprit.
Three rows back, with a head like a rat's nest: What makes you so damn blessed?
Do you hear how I shake when I confess? Are you ever scared that the mouth never closes?
I found Him in cheap, rubber hoses. Take God in small doses.
Sin is best when it flows down your dress. You're the holy actress when down on a mattress. This angle; as blind as your witness. Swallow your blessings whole.
I am the worst of the Holy spirit. You would go through Hell, just to keep me in it.
Why love, when hate is what makes sense?
Is this your best laid plan? Because I still have nothing left.
I love the way her body moves like a carbon copy blueprint of a B-movie starlet that swarms my head, with a sway like a topiary angel of grace. I wish my past never took on a face.
What attracted you besides the pool of miscarriage so delicately placed in the desert sand under a star? Headlights stream a steady beam into the upstairs room where I once thought: “If I jumped, would I be saved by You?“
You poured gasoline down past your lips into a stomach you cleaned out with its fire.
I know you best from where I found you, swallowing blood on the bathroom floor.
Would you die waiting for more?
But, at best, you're a mercy kill.
The adrenaline of pure, lust-driven, sleaze drives hope down the back alley catwalk with ease. A ghost's passivity, will lead me to lucidity, but piety means nothing if carelessly blinding. The symptoms of cancer called divinity are hope, comfort and safety, all of which can be found without You hoping to redesign me. Was I really born with a stake?
And yet you always seem to fall back to safety where: the deaf lead the blind, lead the dead, lead the scared, lead belief, into a chain filled road, where we can’t ever make this right by You, so end me and send me forth.
I’d love to see the way omniscience stares at me through glass rosaries.
I choked on pills, they looked like beads, until I knew what you could see;
it spoke back to me, violently:
“If I am lost to You, then You are dead to me.”
You do not persist in death, unless pursued by endless debt
But no angel could cash that check.”
In all this land where men can’t live then gods can fare no better than the sacredness of man-made plans.
A broken hallelujah.