Why is the wind so cold? Shiver and shake, then shut the door… I don’t need friends like that much anymore. Why is the sun so silver, shining in the sky like a dime? I must have lost track of the time.
Where did I put my glasses? Knocking the jars down with my hand Spilling the corn meal and the sand. Three legged stool, I think I’ll sit down on you just for a while… Head in my hands, I’m crying now.
Time. Sky. There must be somewhere nice where all the birds go when they fly. Space. Darkness falls casting its purple on my face.
Where is my cane, again? Oh, I see it leaning by the door. Perhaps the two of us will go explore. Just take a walk and let the wind try to hurt us as it will… Friends that can bleed but cannot kill.
Time. Pain. Blood dripping in the mason jar- but not in vain. Need. Planting us painfully with a golden seed.
And when the moon comes up we’ll capture it silver in our eyes… Just a man and his cane walking side by side. And when the moon comes up we’ll follow the silver it unrolls… Just a man and his cane going for a stroll.
I promised myself I would not write another song until I had something warm and tropical to sing about. I feel like a cold front is sweeping this country, filling people with piousness and righteous ideas. I am okay with a little righteousness, but once it reaches the point where people start to take pleasure in doling out justice I get nervous. I did not want to add any ice to the group mind.
Still, this Arctic song woke me up in the middle of the night and I decided to write it down anyway. Because the South is all about trusting in Providence, just as the North is about Self-Reliance.
We walk through the frozen mountains.
We wade through the icy stream.
We shine like the northern rainbow.
We blow like the icy breeze.
Am I real?
Am I real?
Kneel down to drink from the water.
Kneel down to drink from the stream.
I’m too thirsty to think about it-
I don’t care if it’s dirty or clean.
Am I real?
Am I real?
We lie upon a caribou fur.
We rest our eyes upon a ceiling of ice.
Silver needles fill my fingers and toes-
I start to sink into a paradise.
Am I real?
Am I real?
We work beneath the silvery sun.
We rely on our ancestry.
Sometimes cold overtakes my heart-
It floats beside me like another me.
Am I real?
Am I real?
I cut my finger with a silvery knife.
I tuck my knife back inside of my fur.
He licks my finger with an eager tongue-
Raw meat is what we prefer.
Am I real?
Am I real?
We walk through the frozen mountains.
We wade through the icy stream.
We are silver needles beneath the sky,
Dissolving into the Bering Sea.
42 years in a place where nothing shines
63 years in a world where nothing’s mine
I crawl; I beg
There’s a face up on the wall but he does not return my call.
Tell me God, what did I do wrong? I did everything you said
I organized my sock drawer and poured shit upon my head
Please don’t make me be the person to remind you
Please do not forget the people who defined you.
Everybody told me that someday I would see
You were just a taker; you took all your gold from me
Still I scraped myself on your stone
Threw my body on your altar and begged you to take me home.
Tell me God, what did I do wrong after 40 years of pain?
I cut myself so badly that my blood poured down like rain
Please don’t make me be the person to remind you
You should not forget the people who defined you.
You are a diamond in a world where nothing shines.
You’re my friend within a place where nothing’s mine.
I walked through the bright red door you opened up for me
Lay my heart upon my eyes; I did not want to see
The hell I paved in gold
Everything that I destroyed and everything I sold.
Tell me God, what did I do wrong? I was there for you each night
I bore the nails into my fists; I held the screams in tight
Must I really be the person to remind you?
You did not exist until the day that we defined you.
I read somewhere that all serial killers must love two colors- purple and black. Black brings in the violence, and purple leads them to murder for reasons that are fanciful and grandiose.
Not that lovers of purple are more likely to be violent. If anything, they are probably less so. A few days ago, I got a dog named Lavender Slippers. Her favorite color is light purple and she is the most sweet and gentle dog ever. I imagine she has her fanciful side though, because every time she sleeps her legs make strange movements, as though she is dancing in a field of butterflies.
I could probably write a book on the color purple and the people who love it, since it is one of my favorite subjects to think about. But for now, I will just point out that you don’t really want evil and purple to get mixed up, unless you fancy results that are as theatrical as they are horrifying.
Throne of Ice
Throne of ice, throne of snow When you go out Nobody knows where you go On your evening stroll.
Cobblestones and autumn lights Fantasy takes purple flights Nobody knows the beauty you bring There is a world where you are king.
Your eyes are cruel With signs of incipient insanity Butterflies fly fly Through the air you breathe.
Your mouth is water logged Your tongue it swims and swirls in a Purple flood to subsume your love With blood, with blood.
You would wear lace if it weren’t out of place Ruffles and bows, powder on your face Necklaces and stacks of rings There is a world where you are king.
Pain and ice, blood and blade Nobody knows the choices you made They weren’t there when the angel flew To lay his visions over you.
Your eyes are cruel With signs of incipient insanity Butterflies fly fly Through the air you breathe.
Your mouth is water logged Your tongue it swims and swirls in a Purple flood to subsume your love With blood, with blood.
A purple scream, a careful slice Lesser people pay the price But you remember your moment of need The whole world stood to watch you bleed.
They stood and watched on that autumn day When you grew wings and you flew away Away from the sounds of your own screams You found a world where you are king.
Your eyes are cruel With signs of incipient insanity Butterflies fly fly Through the air you breathe.
Your mouth is water logged Your tongue it swims and swirls in a Purple flood to subsume your love With blood, with blood.
Carlos Castaneda (my hero, although I reluctantly admit that he appears to have been a manipulative psycho rather than a true sorcerer) wrote that when people sleep together the female sends her energy to the male for the next seven years. In an ideal situation, though, the man will return the energy he receives through his genitals back to the woman through his heart.
This seems reasonable, although I tend to think either gender could set up a cord through sex which siphons off their partner’s red energy for an extended period of time. I guess you could call them sex predators.
How do you know if you’ve been attacked by a sex predator? If you start to share the sentiments expressed in this song and become too detached from life, too unconcerned and selfless, too passive and unmotivated.
