jakeisdead – Page 13 – playlists, poetry and lyrics iteratively

Crying after Fern let’s go

October 25, 2023

Lyrics

Cry with lovers
When Fern let’s go
The Heartbreaking beauty
Of being small

No pleasure without hurt
So pick good poison
Get used to taking turns
And leave my island
All bridges burn
So hit the road
Don’t listen to them telling me where to go
I never really learn
Until my heart gives up on timing

Clouds remind me of
My mother’s voice
Redwoods stand silently
As I hear her ghost say

Theres no fishing without worms
So pick good boyfriends
Get used to taking turns
At cooking breakfast
All bridges burn
So hit the road
Don’t let those fuckers tell where to go
It’s not always gonna work
But it feels better to let somebody in

inspired by the film Nomadland
Missing the Family for the Trees

October 25, 2023

Poetry

Poisoned or fertile
The roots are permanent

Great-grandmother handed Grandmother
Her first of many Valium
Both of them point out the most beautiful clouds
in the middle of conversations

When the speed of things wears me down,
I desire euphoria and cry at the site of thunderheads.

Great-grandfather taught grandfather
How to read, speak and write in Shame
Each perfect word builds the empty rooms they inhabit
And only singular truths comfort them

When I am alone at night, a star in the sky whispers:
“Being small is the start of every infinite and simultaneous connection.”

Missing or intact
The wood of a branch remains

Grandmother showed mother
That in order to live forever, you must tolerate harm under the armor of love
Grandmother did not mention that this ritual requires the path between
Your soul and the sound of your own laughter to be blocked

When a new scar is finished healing,
I relish the way the sun tans it into view.
in the wake of death, you swung high

October 25, 2023

Playlists, Poetry

Wedding dress threads sewn carpet books in childrens’ shoe boxes stacked where now 83% of your practicing dissassociating is landfill photography.

Is there no drug to erase the euphoria of a 5th grade swingset where in the wake of death, you swung high and relearned every pinhole camera moment you felt small kisses on sudden cuts.

A tone of sorrow drones like a refrigerator fan that never remembers that dreamed voices are dreamed voices, numb heartache on a full moon to the next moon, grief is a cycle, hon.

Crack open the carcass of your childhood home and find the object you were trying to forget. That’s the price of a vacation from pity.

Please and thank you, we are so sorry for your bless you loss, merry xmas. They were so young.

Wedding dress threads sewn carpet books in childrens’ shoe boxes stacked where now 83% of your practicing dissassociating is landfill photography. Is there no drug to erase the euphoria of a 5th grade swingset where in the wake of death, you swung high and relearned every pinhole camera moment

Crying after Fern let’s go

Missing the Family for the Trees

in the wake of death, you swung high