Floor. Ceiling. Walls of light. My shadow seeps into my skin. My shape is lost to my eye. Floor. Ceiling. Walls of light. A motherless, fatherless point of shadow— God, the memory of sleep, recoils. I am behind the metal door. My spirit springs to your eye.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s A City Out Of Sight LP, 2007.
How long can you hold your breath? Two minutes? Two thousand years? The city sits upon your neck— snakes, so still suspended upside-down in drinking water— saliva now a nutrient feeding grand machines. Modern industry rushing past your memory, quaint, unthreatening fragment of nostalgia that you are; frozen, beheaded as you are.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s Patience EP, 2011.
From the far room, a figure with many faces stumbles into the hall— forgets, for a moment, the place of doors. Walls, many colored, bead with sweat. Hands fumble for edges in the kaleidoscope: doorframes in shifting light. This one does not want to be found. Thick air: footfalls in puddles recall when breath was all— before the ceiling rose, upwelling, from the floor— before the earth broke into rooms; doors.*** The dog, curled with her ball, waits for variation in the man curled by the door. Whiskers wick moisture from air. She breathes in rhythm, water dripping; voices in the vent. Eyes intent. A shift in the light. Front paws become palms. She stands; glides across the room; grasps his shoulders. Shakes him. Speaks: “Why are you bent to the shape of the doorway, pressed to the threshold, praying, when you and I could be playing?” The dog, curled with her ball, waits for variation in the man curled by the door. Whiskers wick moisture from air.*** She has not touched a moment in days. Gaunt. Paper skin. She sits at the table. Images assess bones, angles. Melting ice seeps from the refrigerator, spreads across the floor. Touches her toe, tickles a memory— another room. She brought language. He brought colores, spoke in broken Spanish. She painted flores. Thin muscles tighten with resolve. She stands, shuffles across the floor— water soaks her soles— opens the door— more supple skin bends with her steps— clasps a hand.*** The air— humid with child. Two melodies intertwine— improvise a whisper: arms that will need to learn to hold, hands that will need to learn to let go. A breath cools their bodies.*** Drip. Drip. Drops fall past blue drapes; open window, yellow petals, green stems. Strike the soil. Split. Smaller droplets cling to the surface, then seep toward roots. He reaches, pinches a stem. Breaks the flow. Places the flower behind his daughter’s beaming ear. “Beautiful,” he says. She smiles.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s Threshold LP, 2009.
Open up your ruined house. Fear not for God. The poem is my pocket. The fiber fragment, folded tight: tucked into a secret, always moving. Behind the seam, this inner lining, I smuggle hope beyond debris. My fingers pinch the promise firm. I press tomorrow: shelter in your palm. We read aloud, breathe into rubble. We read aloud, Our ruin now a temple.
Published as lyrics for GODHEADSCOPE’s Patience EP, 2011. Spurred by Czesław Miłosz’s essay “Ruins and Poetry.”
In the interest of living a less-divided creative life, I’ll now provide updates and information related to my musical work — including the GODHEADSCOPE and Cindervoice projects — via matthewsrosin.com and associated social media.
My writing and musical lives have never been alien from each other in practice, as the “Poetry/Lyrics” feature on this blog attests. Now, all of my creative output will be represented in one place.
To celebrate, here’s “Dusk On Glass,” from GODHEADSCOPE’s 2007 album, A City Out of Sight.