Song picture
The Intention in the Ink
Like
Playlist
Comment Share
scratchy guitars; shaky vocals
acoustic emo indierock michelle cat power michelle rogers mychelle rogers mychelle
gloomy, pretty, unrefined, valium-speed chick rock
my first reviewer called it "a foundation for a dark, shadowy rock opera that someone would listen to while drinking a bottle of wine and contemplating jumping off a bridge". she wouldn't tell me whether or not they'd jump.
Song Info
Genre
Acoustic • Acoustic General
Charts
Peak #630
Peak in subgenre #111
Author
Michelle Rogers
Rights
Michelle Rogers
Uploaded
May 01, 2005
Track Files
MP3
MP3 5.5 MB • 128 kbps • 5:59
Lyrics
I wrote a love letter on a butterfly, Tied her into my cursive mire. The intention was in the ink; it poisoned her wings. I am so sorry for my rhetorical love I’m sorry for my treatise on freedom, For my heart full of harem in my despotic kingdom. I had a premonition at an intersection and chased the ambulance home. We drove hemophiliac; the guilt spilled down the road. The third week in November, remember His priestly fingers taking off her clothes. The sun went for broke for a Midwestern insight It bled her a red massacre, bled her an African twilight We rose for water and discourse and set for wine and intercourse Now expatriate her, play her like a ghost note Cleave the lullabies off her lips, let my sex be silent of this. Take comfort in the skin ‘cause you never know when someone will put a light to our wicks. Prayers are gonna go off like bombs When we dismantle our gods Take shelter in your grotto, Drink heat and rise, live by candlelight. I was coming into my eightieth season, watching planes torch Manhattan. Every siren in the city was taking back its sound. You held my hand grenade heart insisting that love’s not war When you could only throw so far. Everyone cries in a separate language And you’re among the nations Where the tears that border me Count for nothing. So I paid off my love with counterfeit tongue And fled your country We donated our organs to this, Our hearts to the drugs and mistress In the event that we crashed. We’d spend the rest of our transplanted lives trashed In someone else’s deathbed, soaked in her whiskey and sweat. There’s an imprint of your face in the sheets From the night you stayed with me. The stations of your suicide the fetal positions of withdrawal and sickness, The constellations of nails in our crosses, the stillness.
Comments
Please sign up or log in to post a comment.