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the Crystal River

by Red Elk

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1.
I want to go back to a polyp just a blip on a screen an 8-bit anomaly a break in ones and zeros and I'm telling you I never really was good at anything but can you blame a collector for what he found or what he chooses to keep and nobody has ever swam in the fountain of youth but I believe I caught a glimpse of a diamond shimmering of a rippling wave and someday I can get back into my skin drop a penny down into the wishing well in sunglasses, inside a private hell locked into a room in a floral shirt trapped in the patterns and gazing to the window turns to me to say and now, it's nightfall
2.
I heard that you could sing fine old songs with an old country voice and you look into the pages of the old leather bound Bible with drawings of centurions and we both walked down to that gilded valley in and around the sacred gardens and you looked into my eyes and you knew exactly just what I was -nail the flesh to the wood Now look out to those mountainsides whose jagged peaks descend down through snow-banked slopes and dives down through down through down through down through down down down down through down through down down down down down through-down And look into that long span of blue sky and I ask you this do you remember longer summer afternoons walking barefoot down the garden path So forget about the clear blue sky and those mountainsides, that I am
3.
start out with drums walk down these hills and realize that this land is steeped in blood and wildflowers start to explode there a cornucopia of sound the grasses of rythm church-goers only pray when life starts to edge away they drink wine and in the glasses shatter flesh flays cut tendons filet spinal cord feathered dress dancing the ghost of the headless chief flutters astray in long burning winds hieronymus bosch gets up from his chair purses his wrinkled face and decides that my life is gruesome enough to make into a picture and blood is red and water colliding with sand is called a beach and I can not wait to see and blood is red and hot water is there at the sink and can be turned on with the handle in easy reach and blood is all the same when it mixes together and the face in the mirror is turning to spatters of paint slit my wrist and ride away on that wave
4.
where is the white fire? where is the white flower? the oil you rubbed deep into my neck and back a song graced upon a radio bandwidth I went out to the wild woods and found the trees they press for the oil saw the dark ring, mired in mud around the sun like a black halo a pack of wild dogs picked up on the scent from the bone the skin and muscle they did rend a savage fang a hunter's death ironic in it's end where has the golden tulip gone? where does the endless field of poppies now grow? the ship sails far from Indonesian shores this is the enchanted morn and the golden dawn and the golden dawn we walked arm in arm away from the black elk and into the sun
5.
just a glance a deer head on a plate fresh fruits from exotic lands the pagan feast garbed in white at spring time tied bouquets of flowers and thyme rivers waters, churning exotic birds burning the pagans cook the calfs in the mothers stomachs tunics with one arm unburdened a funeral's the last stop on a journey as cry the youngest ones may day festival breathe in deep, gold streams of pollen cascading like the current of the often worshipped river -that's when the girls hang wreathes upon your neck and the druids anoint your forehead go off in flowing robes push the longboat off into the rocks -later buried in mud -buried in sand at the seashore gangs of shackles approach stark reminders of your past and fantasies set on fine china at the banquet table soon to be set on fire in a wooden carcass whipped up by the wind pale hands on white cloth flecked with red touched by a monastic one dagger plunging deep down to take the heart from the chest and in this river the priests will wash their hands and they light a wicker man at the river's mouth majesty of flames and that reflection causes all the men to turn blind
6.
Epitaph 06:12
7.
Cicadas 04:48
a low hum small buzz the language of insects claiming to be passionately in love an air conditioner an idling car's radiator spitting water through the grille and I don't think about it anymore because you can't you won't talk about it so we're shrugging it all off our backs and our shoulders and walking out into the passionate summer heat causing ripples off of the concrete street the gravel ground and what can we see in the cicadas' beating wings transparent in light maybe in thirteen years we'll forget about it all

about

-Andrew Martinen; lyrics, vocals, instruments, programming, production
-Allyson Golden: Cover painting, additional voice on track 6
-Kyle Driskell: Layout, recording space
-Will Go: Cover Photo

Mastering was done by Headroom Mastering

this album was recorded using mobile recording equipment in various spaces

credits

released January 1, 2014

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Red Elk Nashville, Tennessee

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