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Dead Reckoning

by The Warp/The Weft

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1.
Leave to sort them out, the sordid details knifing through the happy story. A decade here. An artful year. Highballs for the low-browed gladhands who sip with pinkies up. Deep in your darkroom, developing, developing your ghost. With whom do we share this mealtime, the seasons of rain and sunshine uncomfortably whole and rich? A lifetime here in a single year, An orb in the mirror, a mirror in a dream of Victorian drapes. Deep in your darkroom, developing, developing your ghost. Here, with the softening sunrise, the caraway seeds in the soft rye: a window open for sounds of birds. A ballad sent on the springtime air high up in the oaks that shoot new life from their wits' end. Deep in your darkroom, developing, developing your ghost.
2.
Milk-White 03:34
"Milk-white," when used to describe skin, is hyperbole, though a shut-in life might lead one to that creamy lack of pigment at least a century unloved, but still it delights despite the sun in our eyes, the sun in the window, the sun on the teary refrain of a sad song that prisms on the whole of a rugged terrain and the milk-white lies that skim your soul again. "Rose-red," when used to describe lips, is hyperbole, though lipstick gives the look of a bleeding mouth on a milk-white face. Eyes like cultured pearls. A shut-in life despite the endless caress, the tongue of the oyster, the tongue of duress. And the sun, when the oyster dies, prisms along the glands, the shell, the sand-- the rose-red blood of life in clumsy hands. [Arteries send; veins return. The stars will shine if their fires burn.] "Milk-white," when used to describe skin, is hyperbole, though a shut-in life might breed some deficiencies and phobias in an endless echo of blood that almost delights despite the mettle we lose, the terror of loss, the rose-red language we choose for our pale song whose schism takes nature away from man, milk-white baby's breath from rose-red hands.
3.
Settled down for the night with her head chamfered to his shoulder Wetter now the eyes with understanding and love to hold her Rose of Sharon round the streetlight a steel spine bent with flickering full moons Dark green and soft white their shadows merge and rise in full bloom Who's labored long can settle down
4.
Our Fortune 02:48
I thought I saw that airplane fly straight into the mountain. I expected a crash, a black cloud in the red night. Eyes fixed on where the ink will bleed, blurring all the headlines pressed for millions to read— life and death streamlined. I thought we'd feel our fortune give birth to bolder fountains gilt with reason. Alas, The womb sags with heavy lies.
5.
There’s a mixtape I play in the car Of the songs we sang in Spain With hand drums and a travel guitar: Wine-blind verses and loud refrains. They’re older now, of course— The songs and the friends. Voices grow faint. Spines begin to bend. And memories, little memories, little memories Hang like motes in the air Of a sun-filled room. When we think for some time About who we are—browning fruits On the apple tree—we can linger on The moon and stars: close as ever At apogee. Who says the dream song needs an audience Believes the flat earth needs its humans.
6.
Growth Rings 03:46
On the darker side of the lighter hours we trace the growth rings of the cut pine in the burn-pile We ache to remember what it was to organize those alphabet blocks into ideal cities for card-carrying members of the idiot elite When evil speaks, whose ear will bend to the sound? In the strongest light, those who were lost are not found but given a way to cast ever darker shadows
7.
Waterless 03:25
​Those pendants you wore before the war began: do you want them still? They say they're American-made. Does that mean something? No shortage of warmth on the hearth where our wet gloves dry, snow-soaked yet finding the form fickle hands left behind. This horoscope warns of a harbor where ships collide. Though no wake when we wake, somehow we've lost the night. In the middle of the city there's a fountain— ugly, concrete, waterless.
8.
Unwieldy fumes in the air. First eyes to tear are the sparrows' and next, the delivery boy's. He undoes bread, pushes it from his hand —a promise, a review of kindness. What does it say of us who say never-ending over everlasting over, over-extending the ever-present? How does it feel to be, she says, in denial? He says I'm not She says Wait, but —I won't —You will My first, last, security, my good name, my dynasty... What does it say of us who say never-ending over everlasting over, over-extending the ever-present? In no time at all we'll be walking over rolling over, starting over in the ever-present.​
9.
Saline 03:36
Tell me the Webster difference between fragile and frail She's porcelain-armed from the elbow down Listless and lunarly pale Fingers: spindles from their wool exposed Clutching at nails She builds a cross to be your pin-up girl Full mast with delicate sail Saline dreams in open wounds It's raining on wilting blooms
10.
Move as One 03:19
We sheep will move as one just before the rain. With the leaves of last year deep in our fleece, we’ll lie down on needles from the pines soft against the pain. We need to run, but we just dig in our feet and lie down. Whose guns destroy the slight echo of rain, echo of automobiles several roads over? Whose guns destroy the night? Little lambs want to play. The canopy sifts light just before the rain. We live bound to a fenced-in lease on life and it’s hard not to lie down.

credits

released August 12, 2019

Copyright 2019 The Warp/The Weft
Written and produced by The Warp/The Weft
Engineered and mixed by Dave Patrikios at The Orchard (Hudson Valley, NY)
Mastered by Carl Saff (Saff Mastering, Chicago, IL)

Trevor Larcheveque: bass/vocals
Christian Lark: drums
Shane Murphy: lead vocals/guitar
Chris Pellnat: lead guitar

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The Warp/The Weft Poughkeepsie, New York

Blending traditional and avant-garde styles, the warmth of a good wool sweater and the sometimes-bleak cold of an upstate winter, the progressive folk and psychedelia that the band brings to bear is propelled by poetic lyrics and a "spirit-conjuring" lilting tenor that prompted psych-folk legend Tom Rapp (of Pearls Before Swine) to ask, "Can I have your voice when you're through with it?" ... more

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