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long ride home

from Post No Dreams by Brad Hamers

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about

poem written - 2009
song written & recorded - 2008
vocals recorded - 2010

lyrics

i drive myself away to confront myself
my coffin in the passenger seat
a mansion’s worth of hallways in my thought out
a mirror’s worth of glass in my tire-d eyes
clunking as they roll out of the reflection
back to me like change
cut in half nickel and dime sense of self
went to the wrong bank to watch myself
keep my head above water
headed out lost like point blank
tossed coin language beats the well out of me
tongue hanging out like a bucket on a rope
the rain was small talk (the window let every word bounce off it)
the season coming had its chest out like tools hacksaw for the sun
thumbtack and staple for the four months of coming overcast
(my feelings jet-lagged still stuck somewhere in the psycho-tropics)
(fell asleep with) my head on the space heater )
pillows tied to each ankle i skip sleep over the ocean i build between us
gasping in the see-n it with my own(ed) two I’s
they were like let loose doves or homing pigeon over bread crumbs
each with a (different) letter in its mouth one with a camera to its chest (like dynamite) like paperweights to its memory bricks for each foot-print a jet tied to our leg eye like runny egg the hold on me like yoke like anchors being dropped into
the expression on my face - no wake zone (only buried bodies)
lengthy books and rope around my throat buried my cough
i never held my breath (under anyone)
there’s a wa(i)ste for every gun
we all fed from like birdfeeders the utter we’re stuck with in our mouth
the last saddle on my hoarse voice
the boot(up) stood foot down tapping to the beat
chewing the straw on my back last(sucked down)drink’s on me
comes out of my empty pocket like copper-greened ghosts
like haunted bank owned homes like(digging in your pocket for) china lint
balled up in the dust on a downward spiral
a (talking)stuffed human that just sits in place -like a cold war bomb
like an off topic - i take the road on ice away from my self to confront my self
my coughed up eyes in the passenger seat (can’t see the mirrors right)
i choke without sound (or (cl)kick-backs)
the plane out was the lion of the sky we couldn’t hear each other changing the subject over it roaring day was the caterpillar still waiting to moth a year from now was the censor light we couldn’t even get through of the private property we claim like future like claims night was the slug of the dull(ing)
hope was the hidden mine
the button that had to be pressed to keep the bomb from going off of the going off the going off was the meat the dinner we chased off a cliff we couldn’t then climb down
blot in my breeding pen a coup in my (already overthrown) mouth
i threw it around like flowers and dough like food money like
blood from a cut up wallet (down to its drizzle and drowning splash)


(we drove in different directions)
every idea was extra light pollution
another exhausted foot stomping out the fire in my eyes
for every spark plug a flat tire another swing on someone’s tree
another yard to mow another photo to crop
i drive myself down my throat to speak from the top of my head
long ride home

(my blame blames itself ) (everything sorry puts its weapon down)
(i dropped my tools on my foot) (my anchor in my mouth)
(they watched me wash up on the beach) (jumping in place in its place like a hammer on the bent nail i attempt to push into place - on line at the dhs
pen on line in a mission with its empty sugar bowl and pointed spoon pull through in line at a throw me a line hook in line at a life raft give-away
- i went there looking for water or for air to fill my float (s) )
(-we ended up using its rocks for skipping over shots of whiskey whisking me away (in the ritual) (never skipping a shot of whiskey)
(whisking me away with the barley the feed crop cooking itself room
temperature for swallow in a pot it’s all in)
(eyes in my face like poker chips tongue in my mouth like fireplace-
poker words like cut logs
-the bones of what i wanted to say(stay stored ina museum inmy head) wired shut (together) out of place -
my right foot forward backward in my mouth -my tongue on my hand -supposed to lick every shake
like a blender
dancing to the refrain fruit in the wind fruit in the wind hopefully there’s fruit on you
my words fell out of the wide blue wind in my eyes my head jumped out in front of me slipped in the fruit that
fell from you (drove myself into the stationary tree
-my drive -the high-beams blanking out each shooting star)
every idea was extra light pollution another exhausted foot stomping out the fire in my eyes they start rubbing themselves together
the way money mates
a bomb broke out on the (oily) face of my next occupied day black me out bills in the red let them bleed for me
the blood is driven out of me like highways (a mansion’s worth of polluted heir looms hacks up through my liquid filled lungs with wind ,in it ,moth and dead unsaid hawk coming up out of its coffin)
i drive myself down my throat to speak from the top of my head
(a railroad map) (tracking out the sequence of words) (laid out)
(on their backing) (ranting toward the source)
(drinking from my blurry glasses) (seeing from my drinking glass glass in my mountain blasted eye) (most of me hides in the fog at the bottom)
(of the (heavily breathed in) glass)




happiness had a gone off gun
time had a fat waste it got burnt into
all the anxiety kept smoking tucked away
loneliness was an antique cannon (that had to be dragged)
(with)no order(s)
the fleeting was a shot to the chest
every next private beat in order
with its’ hyper-perfect scars marching toward the fire
missing you has a weapon that has yet to be made
(every second a new science lab creating the next)
time (also no orders) has a bomb with a trick candle wick and a debt to every next sky (also no orders)
(we’re always with each other)
(somewhere in time)



now that comfort was the debris falling everywhere around us
loneliness was a used ammo bag for empty shells (and ash dropping out of wind)
certainty was the sand and what’s buried beneath it
(the thought of tomorrow was the gold-detector) (or unloaded shotgun) (stomach full as an hourglass)
(tomorrow was just the battery pack) (or only the saw)
(or only the glass) (to see it through)
(to see it through)
(to see it through)

credits

from Post No Dreams, released November 30, 2010
produced by Brad Hamers, Big Pauper & Jennifer Griffo
lyrics & vocals by Brad Hamers
additional vocals by Jennifer Griffo
guitar by Big Pauper
mixed & mastered by Big Pauper

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

brad hamers Portland, Oregon

writer, music-maker, collage-maker,, performance-maker, loud dreamer, mental gymnast

(member of: Through Flames, Child Of No Nation, Cat Child, Dust On Snow, Two Ton Sloth, Phlegm and Al Límite Collective)

Artist at Shrine13

www.bradhamers.com
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