Together We Compose This Bloody, Bleeding, Beating Drum

from by Jon Watts

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lyrics

I once had a job but I lost it in high school.
Whenever I fooled myself into thinking that I needed their help
I was their fool,
but now I'm my fool.
And now I sign pools of rhymes into time cycles.
I align myself with this bed of nails that's been recycled
until I'm finally alive and dying at the same time.

And when I sigh then I'm sighing for peace,
and when I die then I'll rest there.
Where I get my breath there's a source of oxygen,
a solidness imbued with phosphorous,
and a solemn intolerance for anything but love,
and it's rooted in love.
It's rooted in beauty.
It's rooted in a sense of simpleness and ambiguity.

And so I'll focus on discernment and breathing.
We've all earned a learner's permit.
Permit yourself to grieving,
and be freeing,
and to teething when you're teething,
and see peace in believing bereavement's bereft brethren's
seven settlement's indebtedness to the betterment of love
and to the practice of love,
and to the sadness that comes
with the lack thereof.

I won't speak to the world when the world isn't listening
deeply.
That's why I waited this long to release this song of songs,
songs of Solomon enthroned with the wood of Lebanon,
songs entombed in the womb until I felt that there's room
to stop absconding with my pregnancy,
And now Ba'alhamon is expecting me,
expectantly.

And I'm incessantly setting precedence in the presence of the president
who presides presently over the peasantry.
I'll set aside a suit of simple symmetry.
Synthetically, I synthesize the story of what's natural.
It's a glass half full of embattled saturn plasma.
It's a boy,
no it's a girl.
It's a toy,
no it's the world's surface enduring certain circumstantial services...
super solemn. superficial. super sacrificial splurges in our endless bags of purchases.
The sermon at your service spoke to sympathetic tourniquets in need of seeking reassurance
for the next effeminate person to pool a possible burden.

I speak urgently because it's urgent.
This emergency's emergent,
and I'm a fuckin' word surgeon,
serving solace from my person,
signs of solidness ensuring
that I'm a growing and a maturing little
butterfly.

I. Can. Fly.
Signed, my guardian angel,
staying sane at the same table as the stablest savior saves
all the other saviors,
bringing peace to your neighbors through osmosis.
The closest soldier knows this war is hopeless.
He knows that we're impoverished by the fists we've thrown,
so now our foes can go home,
and we can plow the ground with swords we've melted down
and use them to harvest all these seeds we've sewn.

So now we're saying prayers of gratefulness like grace is all we've known.
We're singing songs of freedom like they're songs we've always sung.
We're sweetly leaking Jesus juice like Abraham's last son.
Tell Isaac that his time has finally... come.

And now I'm looking at the moon like I'm the sun,
and she's reflecting passion back to me, the energy to run,
and I don't care that it's night time.
I don't care that day is done.
I don't care that all the owls stare and judge me like I'm dumb,
because I'm not dumb.
I know enough to know that I don't know.
My wisdom is sufficient to be quiet and to listen,
because in the basic-est of instances our languages are different
and the isolated brain is intrinsically indifferent

so I'm going to be a body and I'm beating like a heart,
and I'm hoping that you'll be the blood to travel with this art,
because the muscles might be tired.
They might be atrophied.
They might be looking to caffeine for energy they need.

But come on, let's get together.
Someone be the lungs.
Someone be the need to breathe, and
someone be the tongue.
Someone be the eyes and ears, and
someone be the hands
Someone who can persevere,
the feet on which we stand
and you're the rock, body.
No one's gifts left useless.
The Universe needs you to do the best that you can do with
just what you've been given,
with everything you've got.
Your finite contribution fills a hole that mine does not.

And together we can stand.
Together we can run.
Together we collect our calories straight from the sun.
Together we envision all our lives combined as one,
and together we compose this bloody, bleeding, beating drum.

credits

from Clothe Yourself in Righteousness, released September 23, 2011
Written by Jon Watts
Violin by Marina Vishnyakova
Cello, Mixing and Mastering by Jake Thro

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Jon Watts Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Quaker poet-producer-songsmith in West Philly.

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