Combustible Sundress

by Benjamin Boyce

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04:03
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released November 16, 2012

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Combustable Sundress Olympia, Washington

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Track Name: Napalm and Cake
Yesterday with a tumult in her eyes
she tried kissing me and I don't know rightly why
but I'm about to be caught up in the storm she brews next to me

keeping my body warm in this double bed
that perhaps from too much drink I had let her in
and I can't allow her to think she's got the upper hand

but I can't recall her name and she's lying on
my arm that's half asleep and my knighted pawn
moves To the words she speaks in the morning light
Her skin a sheath of down and her heavy sigh
the wind before the storm that she clarifies

"yesterday when I saw you standing there in the dim lit bar
with your wild unkempt hair your eyes seeing far
as though set on something wrong in a distant land

"and I could tell your Will was strong in your heart and hands
as though you needed to correct some small Accident
and if I would interject myself in your plans
you change my insides for the better
here..."

and she moved her hand astride my listening ear
and she moved her body hi on my body and
we unmade the day with that gruesome act
of napalm and cake and her hurricane
scooped the dirt from my guts the Scum from my brain
and for a moment we were one
and all but the same
Track Name: Cave Hands
Every day I promise myself that I'll try
to not be so alone inside
my head which is where I prefer to be.
And if the angels
way up high in their wide white sky
decide to look down on me, then I
hope that with their Light
they'd send some peace.

And I admit I'm dressed
for the wrong solstice
Seasonal Dyslexia I suffer from—
but that don't explain
the tremble in my hands.

Just as the predator
awaits with twitching tail
and salivating maw
before the burrow of his scented prey
I fear the moment that I step outside
my patchwork slipshod shell that I'll
be set upon my internecine grief.

And I admit most days I think nothing of
the outside world.
I'm content to paint pictures of buffalo
beside outlines of my hands.

And as the wetted stone
reveals its colors true, and yet when it dries
appears to be a drab, unlustrous thing
I too abscond from drama's wheel,
and anger's hold
that they won't magnify
the two or three realnesses in me.

And I pray each night anonymously
that the Lord of Hosts won't identify
this supplicant
who hides his light
between two tight-clasped hands.

And at the end of days
when saints descend
and chaos reigns upon the earth—
maybe then I’ll have nothing to lose.
I’ll step out from my cave
with what I’ve found
held up high within my hands
and there declare the triumph of the Peace.

And I’ll search for you
through the forests charred
and the harbors dried
and if I find you beneath a pile of
broken toys
I’ll save you with these hands.