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poem ("By Way of Proof") written and performed by jack cavanaugh

quinsigamonster.tumblr.com

lyrics

I’m calling to collect, concede concern,

exploit and disregard apologies.

There are no sorries left, no water fetched,

no tumbling after broken crowns, and down

these hills I’ll plummet, still contrite, or limp,

or lying all the way. The debt remains,

a debt these limbs will leave unpaid again.

Instead, attrition tenders credit’s claims,

in tendon and in spid’ring bones, the wrist,

in fingers’ sins, the noiseless sex of dirt,

or cartilage. You owe me for my sweat,

and for the cells you’ve stolen scratching. A

sincerely untold doubt is written there,

in epithelial loss and potting soil,

in unstill space, still air still being filled

with color and your hips’ conjecture still

so absolute, and killed—so fucking dead.

With tendons sore (and aching to remind:

the mind is only strong because the hand

can bear the force), I told you I did not

believe in falling. Maybe I believe

in jumping; maybe I believe in sounds

of bodies splattering upon the ground.

credits

from a flash of dark // a wash of light, released January 31, 2015

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Jon, the Archivist image

Jon, the Archivist Worcester, Massachusetts

Jon the Archivist lives in Worcester, MA, and this is the sound of him screaming at nothing.

Honest Face Records

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