darkturn, Maw – Liner Notes

I once thought there was a theme that united “Maw”; there’s not. Written under the sway of Moby-Dick,”You Should Go Mad, Blacksmith” is a cautionary epistle to my younger brother about the deranging affects of megalomania and transgression. “Common Doom” is a retelling of the central tropes in horror films. Certain of my departure from Chicago, “Monkey – – Rope” discovers the promises of the future to be illegible. “Unshored” is yet another elegy for the South, newly threaded by the abortive community Pensacola people had failed to reestablish in Chicago. 

“You Should Go Mad, Blacksmith” 

Silence is the solace
of a heart encircled.

Adam draws near
to what he most fears.

Cause if a God can break
then he’s gonna break too.

Brother, I got no advice for you.
Except to keep your mouth shut
most of the time.

Because your mind won’t
all of the time.

Cause if a God can break
then you’re gonna break too.

(Overlapping chatter made up of quotes pulled from Moby Dick)

In bed, the chatter, no it won’t, subside.
Then you’ll mutter “Oh, I got to let it go.”
But you’re God will state, he’ll state, “No, I can’t let it go.”

At best you’ll go on flailing.
I’m sure you’ll find a comfort between a pair of knees.
Just be sure to guard your insides.

Cause if a god could fail you
they’re gonna fail you.

If a god could fail you,
they’re gonna fail you, too.

“Common Doom”

Groaning from the alley comes
and they all pair off two-by-two.

Shoes don’t fit once their done,
dressed in code, confused by whose hand is whose.

Their eyes are golden on the horizon.
Oh no, there’s a monster come to(o)
hunt them towards their grave.

Go on run and hide, but amor fati.
The best of you accept what can’t be undone.

Oh, how funny, they kick and scrape.
How useless is being-towards-death.

But I just need the family to survive the scary film.
The youth can meet their end.

It’s probably best to let them all die.
What’s it to you, viewer?

I mean they’re all thin from all sides.
What’s it to you, viewer?

“Monkey – – Rope”

The ache of these mornings keep
hanging around.

But what they’re made of won’t
come ‘round, through my mouth.

Even when I tend my worries I keep clapping awake.

Oh, spare-me-none-light
show me my name.
Tell me my name.

In all these pictures I see the same,
biding time for the tides to flood the frame.
At the foamy mouth of this seascape,
I see the end where all is arranged.

Night pulls me forth by my feet.
And in half by my needs.

Amid the drift of soft winter light,
in the distance, a promise bellows.
(Your part close-fire, soft caress.
while the other sets fire to the rest)

Thinned out by the cold.

In all these pictures I see the same,
biding time for the tides to flood the frame.
At the foamy mouth of this seascape,
I see the end where all is erased.

Track 4 – Unshored 

Stand and scold old, cold Chicago,
grippin’ wheel and nixin’ brow,
no words ahead.

Say farewell to Southern Corners,
gripping’ wheel and nixin’ brow
scared of life ahead.

The world’s dismal truth
may be summed simply.

But I can’t sing it — simply.

So much of what I’ve planned
resolves into a wordless cringe.

Biting nothing when I’m alone.

Wake up all but wrung out,
in yet another house,
filled with grey-blue light — fragile light.

Feeling nothing when I’m alone.

Though some say the South
will rise again from fear
forsakin’ their better years.

Just listen to those sad magnolia trees
they know what hate you hung (sic) there.
Regret was in your stare … once.

I’m here for now
one day I’ll go back down.

Drink and drive and take
myself through town.

So don’t rave so loud
about the cold you clown.

Just drink your drink
and sit the fuck down.