Lyrics from CURSIVE's crank! release, "Such Blinding Stars For Starving Eyes":
AFTER THE MOVIES. I still miss you, are you glad I'm finally gone. I'm so sorry to hear that. I'm so sorry, have I hurt you. I have hurt myself. These sad songs won't change anything. Love as fragile as a wineglass. It should have been forever. Love as fragile as a wine glass. It couldn't last forever. I'm so sorry. It should have meant forever. I remember how we kissed, one night as forever.
DOWNHILL RACERS. Hold your breath dear, this ship is going down. We're all downhill, running with our time bombs. These shins are cracked and splintered, these lips are crusted shut, these squinting eyes just sting me, these veins are drying me up. All these limbs, they're just tools. We're all stilled vehicles. These joints rust, these pores leak. Time gets selfish, time is speed. (The sweetest dreams have murdered me. They murdered me. They murdered me.) Like the fear of unskilled labor in the Nuclear family; it's the nightmare of digression that engulfs a history. All my limbs, they're just tools. Duplicated, mass produced. Running down, losing speed: time escapes us. Timing's everything. Everything. This is the tic in the heart. This is the beating of the clock. This is an absent blot clot. These are the seconds that I've lost. This is the slow-rush hour. Everything's so rushed. This is the slow rush.
CEILINGS CRACK. Passed out in the yard. My clothes were soaking in the morning rain. My head's just a bruise, like walking in a coma - like a battered drone. All my limbs are numb. I've been driving past your house, been pounding at your door. I know I'm just a peon to you, but I deserve more than arrogance and condolences. My hearts are on the sleeves of my shirts scattered over your lawn. And the morning dew kissed them. Drunk on Bastille Day. Throwing pennies at the broken birds. Scribbling plans on napkins: a sketch of broken angel wings under your bed (my bandages). I'll stumble to your house, I'll sneak in the back door. I know I've been an asshole to you, but that was before the accident, the argument. Well, I've heard it's just a matter of time before the hour is spent. And my hour is spent. I can't afford it this time. I can't afford this time. The hour has come for retribution. I'm storming the walls down.
THE DIRT OF THE VINEYARD. Less talk, more dancing. If we could push off the sick conversation one more night, I surely would. My shoes have gathered the dust of the vineyard. Have I soiled your gown? There's soil on your gown like sangria (cleanses the heart.) Our clogged hearts are choking on the grime. As the big band waltzes on, your stranded eyes whisper, "the dirt is out. I can smell her on your velvet hands." The dirt is out - are we stuck in the motions again...Oh, but was it sweet in the vineyard. Sangria, won't you bless the starving lips. Such virgin lips would choke on all this grime. I've found some dirt under my nails. I'll scratch and bite until the dirt is out, but sangria burns under my skin. The dirt is out. I thought I'd never wash these hands again. Under my skin.
TARGET GROUP. There's no use going to Des Moines, I heard it's just like here. I guess it's just like everywhere. As for us, I guess we're not immune. Look at our same plain face. Still I assume this subject identity, shared with all the kids that qualify - and that's a pretty high percentage to embrace. But easier to classify, cause all my friends are in the same target group and all of them look like all of you. And they're restless in standstill, but they don't know where to go. They don't know. (I wish I could disappear my unwhole self away from here)...Now. I don't want to le it sit around. Just make it go away. Let it cure itself, let it be a cure for us. And if I never leave this hole make sure you bury me here with all my dead friends. We'll make a toast to the one's who ran away. Just get me through.
EIGHT LIGHT MINUTES. Clad. I'm wearing thin my invitation. I'll wear it out, but it's just eight light minutes I'm offering you. We could burn up so close. We could burn to our cores. Burn to our cores.
VERMONT. Staring up at stars from the back seat of a station wagon carving the night. Trees keep marching by - light poles blur into a stream - blazing laser beams. All these stars. My thoughts are trivial pursuits. My hearts' a bomb that's been defused. What now. There's no more use for me, I'm wasting energy; muscles are weaklings, thoughts just defeat me, numbness is effortless - I could get used to this. Driving through Vermont, overwhelmed by the insignificance. (Interstatic) My conscience was my crutch for a heightened existence - This other worldliness. These schoolboy lies. I've been deprived reality, brought up by holy ghosts and saints. What now. I'm the delinquent here - I'm the contagious one; this heart is helpless, I feel the numbness...All Hail the Athiest. I could get used to this.
DEDICATION TO DESERTION. Sweating with confidence - they're soiling our egos. And we're locked at the hip. Don't cut the cord too short. You've cut yourself off - I thought we agreed no limb should be left so severed and bleeding. What are you missing. A truth so disabling might blind my starving eyes. But weren't we locked at the hip? You've cut the cord so short. What are you missing. You've cut yourself off. I thought we agreed, but some doctrines of faith can be so misleading. What are you missing.
WARPED THE WOOD FLOORS. When we were burning, these stained walls would swell with passion. Our sweat warped the wooden floorboards. You'd kick out the night-light, and let the moon bleed through the window, draping over naked bodies. We're killing time trying to love what we can't find (but who does.) A drier heat than we know blistered me badly - we've all been burning out. I'll have a Gibson...my throat is dry from yelling blindly at the wishing stars that wrecked me. They kinged me naïve; now I keep the night light on and watch the sweat drip from the ceiling. These summer nights the streetlights burst flames. They screech too bright, they scream blind. A drier heat than we know blistered me badly...Warp the wooden floor. Kick out the light, kick off the bed sheets, and let the moon bleed in.
RETIREMENT. Our mistakes are scrawled upon the chalkboard. They're scribed across stained glass. They're posted on the billboards, a lackluster charade. And are we so naïve to concede these forefathers. Apparently we are. Well, apparently it's true. Theres no slot machines past the pearly gates. Why do we kid ourselves. We grow old and wise; we just lose our minds. The dinner is a hit, the guests are full of spirits. They gather around the husband - he's versed in party tricks. The wife is in the bedroom smearing her make-up, make-up, make it up. But she's got a lover on the side. Motels, cheap wine. She says, "You can't base love off the pity fuck, unless they've got a lot of money." Cause it's that we play cause we need to exist. We're not humans - we're citizens. It's the one on the ground with his hands on his heart. It's the cleavage of division. It's all jagged and jaded., but it suits us. We just fake it through.
THE FAREWELL PARTY. "Bon Voyage," and promptly he hung up the phone. There was a doorbell ringing, so he snuck out onto the terrace. He said, "If these were my last words, would they even make print. If all I had to say was simply over said by those old heretics." These words are counterfeit - xeroxed off of memory…and no one's listening..HEY. Twilight dawns, all the champagne is gone. All that's left is left behind. Doorbells, still lives. "Since you're leaving, was it a hollowed out heart? It seems you've been yearning for some worldly position. Somewhere you can crawl up in a little ball." It seems the world collapses in the Mother's womb. The place of birth where we're all condemned. It's the warm, sad, jaded end. Starving for salvation on a terrace drunk, tired and alone. Farewell dead skin. These words are second-hand, they're dry, they're cracked plastic lies. They're cheap old whores who wasted their lives in search of the warmest womb.