We were all held in ransom by cellular phones
Like pigeons tethered to stones
Could I not hear the hum of my soul as it droned
Vibrating all throughout my bones?
Now where are the books that I meant to write
In the darkening hours of night?
They’ve been lost in the couch cushions
Tucked outta sight
Covered in dust and contrite
As I live in terror of time
How I tremble at each bell and chime
Could the source of my trouble
Be how I define
In thinking that all of it’s mine?
I was watching a paid TV program
Avoiding a projected plan
I was thinking about what Bukowski had said
In a book about rye bread and ham
He said that life’s just one big disappointment
With your young years spent looking ahead
Then you get older
And see you’ve been led
To an old dried up dead riverbed
As I live in terror of time
How I tremble at each bell and chime
Could the source of my trouble
Be how I define
In thinking that all of it’s mine?
Now darling, when it’s the end
And the credits begin
And the names of the actors descend
Can we sit in the dark
And try to pretend
We’re foolish young lovers again?
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Written as she was coping with an auto-immune disease, the new EP from Rachel Angel offers hushed, silvery ’50s-style Americana. Bandcamp New & Notable Aug 23, 2020
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