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FAWM 2012

by The Contortionist

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1.
Still, the drips of water across this white membrane To pool on the creases and shower us all again. Listen to my breathing These quiet, strangled breaths The muffled sounds of sleeping in delicate, somnolent gasps. Could this be delicately composed by the old voices drifting to sleep? Can this be taken away from me by the well dressed men of history? Turning the page, breathing the dust Hearing some distant ringing Turning the page, breathing the dust Calling this place my home
2.
Crawl underneath the covers, cold as ice The creaking of the floorboards - the coming tide And all this time we ask for is not a gift But the demands that we make shall not be met You close your eyes and I sit in silence Waiting for this winter to end This sovereign land will fall in the springtime
3.
Can you picture this very scene But in several years' time All I see is the grayest face On this portrait of mine The colours crash into me Can you picture this very scene But in several years' time It just seems to pale to me Solemn, yet undignified The colours crash into me And they'll take this sickness out of me And colour this all in please This monochrome will cover the leaves Just colour this all in please As I picture this very scene But in several years' time All the shades cascade away as the palette runs free
4.
I was all dressed up in rage And folding my arms like a military drill The air was solid to the touch And every small draft felt like the advancing artillery Pause, And look out this tiny window And count all the ordinary people just waving us on Pause, And collect all your scattered thoughts And we'll gather this dirt and turn it into a sunken garden And with this torrent of images and ideas we'll fall into wonderful obscurity And no reporters will come knocking No one will cry for a comeback No one will mourn this loss
5.
I was the first to notice what was wrong There was a distant murmur, and you were gone And in the tiny afterlife you know I am the corner of this envelope Slowly moving through some old sound For you to hold on to I was the first to notice what was wrong There was a distant murmur, and you were gone Now I'm following the ashen trails Pulling earth from underneath my nails And all the birds are waiting for the song That isn't mine to give
6.
We are the dots We are scrambled all over the page And every line that was written was joining the space between corner and corner between some formless rage you were tearing your hair out and each fallen strand you would line up and then You would reach out towards this cold cynic for comfort again Who would just spit unclear and orderless phonemes out into the air between the north and the south oh, there is some formless rage you were clawing your eyes out just to put them back in and over and over I am folding my arms and you reach out to grab them and I wake with a start Oh! How the daylight just falls into place
7.
There was never any place for these words But I see the corners of your eyelids fall Buried underneath the veneer of such magnificent posturing Buildings shook to their foundations Colours flood in all directions Your heart filled with condemnations Colours flood in all directions And I'd just opened my eyes And you said "the madness will follow the art" When I tired to sympathise You said "they asked for it right from the start" When we're spun and spun we can't see through The thick fog that surrounds this delirium
8.
And I peer through these brittle panes of glass Through which the sun never came to touch our eyes Slowly then do these memories surface Emerging now from the cracks beneath my hands Now here I hold sounds of every single laugh Still I see every step until the last There the place where at first I touched your hair A monument; the crux of our victory Oh to learn this again To recall these memories as the last thing we will know And though the surfaces seem new I can see through to the way they were before Cold and sheltered in this old light I become a mere vehicle suddenly entangled with the earth

about

fawm.org/fawmers/thecontortionist/

So... I kind of failed at FAWM this year. Still, I'm pretty happy with what I produced, even though I didn't reach the 14 1/2 mark.

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released February 1, 2012

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The Contortionist London, UK

The Contortionist is me, Andy Hirst; usually alone, but sometimes with friends. We even had a proper band for a while (The Contortionist and The Wandering Boy Poets).

I've been in a load of bands over the years playing various things: drums in Nixon, The Broken Chairs, and The Purgatory Players, guitar in Situationists, guitar/keys/vocals in Japanese Sleepers and Fall Forwards.
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