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Signs for the Blind

Signs for the Blind
  1. The Alchemist - 2:19
  2. Matchsticks - 3:53
  3. Count Your Fears - 2:32
  4. Signs for the Blind - 2:52
  5. Mr. Lincoln (Bonus Track) - 4:24

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The Alchemist

Like Midas, I touch what turns to gold, guide us toward the pot to grow, 
the pasta bowl that’s infinite like god would know 
Like I would know my mystery, eyes are bloodshot blister pleased, 
I fist the beat, it’s an errand, done it before when no one was staring 
a plentiful bore for plentiful boys, planning for toys that been other boys 
A fan of a foisted love endorsed by damsels in distress 
those who take you for colors and leave you redacted at best 

the alchemist know the way 

the path to fame and fortune, lead by dwarfing mountains morphed in 
moistened towellettes and sex tapes in blurred family portraits 
last dates and first kisses, doctor visits and black eye stitches 
a book read and thrown aside, truth be told it was all lies 
a move to gloat about the light lost inside the tunnel’s life 
there’s nothing left inside, nothing left there out to sign 
that’s what they’re about to find

Matchsticks

I was born a catholic, then I became a catfish 
Once fooled, twice shy, 
—- 
Where we stand and when it goes, when it blows, 
it’s wind self-imposed and overlaid on virgin toast 
and marmalade like dominoes in their last parade, 
a common ghost of overlooking the common denomination made 
and took it, got the bookies on the take, the maiden voyage never made it’s way 
across the frozen lake, 
I found the gold flake, discovered it was fake, and made them taste it, the old medicine of play 
confessed I left a part of my self-control, some called it indestructible, at sight it’s a combusted vestibule of hope 
shatters every sign of luck from here, this side of a hall of mirrors 
but fuck it, I’m busy self-destructing, got my mittens stolen by the man that told me it was only holy if I go bare, blind and deaf 
this way to lift the weights of death 
and never say a word of happened, least not yet 

I was born a catholic, then I became a catfish 
Once fooled, twice shy, now I’m made of matchsticks 
—- 
some of the boys made bets against each other hoping to best their altar brothers 
open a chest of rotting flesh, first to cry will lose the ties of the rest, bursted eye they called it fast, forget the tears when he calls to pass 
got the fear before you’re known to be the fearful, written off as boys will be boys when you get that earful 
but some of the girls made bets against their sisters, sitting in their jumpers while they read the will of some dead mister 
bow down for the all-seeing beast-man, to take this from our hands and in the ground lies the reasons 
we stand for that free-fall, controlled by the ropes that we will later recall and fill the hole with dirt and sand 
hide the rotting flesh in a box inside the earth, concrete to protect and steel to lift the curse 
contain the souls for no escape, tethered to their holy gates, forever just defines their place 

I was born a catholic, then I became a catfish 
Once fooled, twice shy, now I’m made of matchsticks 

Count Your Fears

Talk to me like I’ve got something on my mind, walking round a wish-it-well, dropping in all my dimes 
And I’d wish you well, but I’ve not got the time, ring my bell when it’s time to dine, and I’m busy selling all my chimes to the wind that blows the way I sign 

I missed the boat so I walk on the water, to cross the pond looking for monsters, 
he drops the bomb on his mother and father, or they drop the bomb for the bullet’s commerce 
to prevent war from happening he makes it and says it’s sad but he can’t stop once he’s started to back it in 
he packs it in and made these robots with parts that are departed, he knows his home is haunted and bought it for bargains 
to burn it down so no one ever knows the sound of no and never, goes in clever, comes out dumb and wasted, strung up puppets played in mazes for the fun of painted faces 

Hook: 
From the basement to the attic, I’m a face in the shattered mirrors 
Ghosts in all these houses, follow them and count your fears 
x2 

I fixed the boat and made an offer, tethered to that postman’s coffer, 
tip jar for cops and robbers to play their part as awkward paupers, the cops and robbers of western fathers 
of pop’s and mom’s shop full of pots and pans that never wash or use again, that never cause a cancer in a simple answering, 
a single hand syringe, to shoot up that heroin, I’m afraid there’s no place for him, set to the tune of the tv, the safest place to be is the ceiling 
on dvd, when everyone is a demon to be 

one moon from a werewolf, one blood sucker from a vampire, 
one car from a buick 8, one scar from you’s too late to put out the damn fire

Signs for the Blind

caught me sifting through the sand of my manhood, the handbook you can’t look at, top secret method cooking 
cook us up a lawsuit, trying to sue that law’s suit, that talking head that saw you through the tv got your rocks loose, 
marbles rolling sideways in that bed head of rhetoric, the red dress and red lips of redrum run through bad gifs 
bless him says the father of the man that is the child, says the quote to live by wordsworth the time of day in miles 

I’m a mercenary bird perched to shit on my target, some people and some cars and some windows to catharsis 
find it hard to buy the part with the parking lot of hardships, some cars are garbage and others fresh off the market 
and parking meters served by meter maids that work to feed their meter maids in some convoluted curse of keeping cake 
just to eat it later, so they say as I watch their birthday’s play out, blown candles and presents wrapped in fabric handles make 
for ways to bail south for winter, but winners don’t give up, they learn to fail and pick themselves a worm from the big crutch 

the kid loves his blocks to build with, it’s all he’s got, when all about the building are plots to scheme to kill them 
from the cops to the kinsmen, are brothers with love for minions, and mothers that must give them the child on the cusp of crimson flood 
they must kill him because he’s about to build a bomb, to blow the world to bits, would you kill him if it meant to save your own skin? 

Hook: 
These signs for the blind in the mind of the sighted, some call it shining and others try to fight it 
These signs for the blind in the mind of the sighted, some call it shining and others are undecided 

How do you find the piece to fit the puzzle when they all look the same and none are less the puzzle 
Got the rain made in factories with batteries to strike the lightning, thunder made in speakers lodged under bikes 
typing me and i and they again, repeated like a prayer to send nowhere but the barren ends 
to mean an average there depends on nabbing hares as fast as rabbits, when we’re slow as tortoises living out our retirements in madness 

Hook: 
These signs for the blind in the mind of the sighted, some call it shining and others try to fight it 
These signs for the blind in the mind of the sighted, some call it shining and others are undecided

Mr. Lincoln (Bonus Track)

V1: 
Wayward bound down the white picket fence of the found revolution in the scrapbook of events, 
painted white for the people that started the bloody conflict, civil war contortion artist round the ship that’s moored to block it 
double portions for the black powder to blast away the black power, masturbate the rastafarian that passed the fate 
that faster carried him past the gates of ashen lakes covered in blood, burnt to hide the color of love for a couple of gloves and a dove 

I covered it up, set it ablaze, watched it melt from far away, the candlesticks of human fat and mantlepieces of the past 
the plaster walls collapse in stacks, like books shelved in acid baths, the bastard bird claps its last heard dream deferred to black 
the path to burn a scheme usurped and it’s a two-for-dirt to bury the dead and bury their heads in a sandy first to class 
is last to die to pacify the coming dread, the fire climbs the dried up vines and finds its way into your head 

Hook: 
They say mr lincoln got to thinking, 
got his finger on the tip of his tongue 
They say ms lincoln got to thinking 
and he never got to finish his thumb 

V2: 
We all recall the day we let the leaves fall, didn’t play no more with when the beast called, didn’t pay no more to the deep thoughts 
didn’t they know more than they ripped off, didn’t they know poor from meat that thaws, didn’t they deploy the freedom fighter, made of boys that needed fighters, 

I pay the boy inside to quiet, tell him he knows nothing I don’t, tell him he’s got nothing I don’t, 
I mind the nothing idol, the idle kid that’s left with my hopes, dreams deferred by dial tones and dreams that hurt when I console 
can solve my momentary puzzles and the homeless living at home, still puddles unsure of just how deep I fumble for release 
I bundle up my clean sheets and wash all the tea leaves to read my crystal ball decide if I’m ready to leave or just ready to lie 
I’m midas just a figure in the mind of something bigger than the mind is, never seem to mind it but really I’m just as powerless 
I’ve got no kind of power trip, no socket to fit the plug I hid, no cocky attitude, I’m just a lonely average dude 

Hook: 
They say mr lincoln got to thinking, 
got his finger on the tip of his tongue 
They say ms lincoln got to thinking 
and he never got to finish his thumb