LINKS TO LYRICS BESIDE EACH TRACK.
BEST HEARD IN HEADPHONES.
All sounds created, instruments played, lines written, and lyrics sung by Alaric L., except for the white noise on "You're", provided by Ad.
Don't, Don't (Pt. I)
When I feel a lump in my throat, I say, "don't, don't." I want to gag and throw up, still I don't, don't. Their wings trembling, you were pulling, still I thought I would wait it out. Is love an idea worth pursuing? Should I just fade out?
I remember that night when you finally unlocked--and later I lay lost at sea and longing--but that night I was floored, literally, chancing my hand up to you blinking restlessly, a beacon on the sofa. Not my hand--I felt your urge to grab my flailing fingers, felt it pulse through the silence like a wild memory fleeing capture by a quick draw mental telephoto lens: a runaway EKG, maybe. But who could ever really know? Maybe love is letting go. Although love could never be forgetting. So still my eyes are on a long shutter speed catching every flair of what light you've spilled on the floor, and trying to hold more than kisses or perfume--the things that make pillows out of people and melt them into puddles. I'm trying to know you through a Polaroid or Pentax snap, and even if my shot comes out blurred I assure you it'll happen. But when am I overexposed? Is love really letting go?
I tell them, "Leave me alone," but they don't, don't. Can you imagine a want that wishes won't? Consuming fear kills ideas, over-incubates them. Release your feelings in a tear or you'll always hate them.
And when it seemed as though I had no more questions, though my stuff-to-say gushed white matter from my nose and ears from restraining it like champagne fizz that practically ejaculates in celebration; but it wasn't sex, instead you simply held me and I held you and we both breathed deeply, the pressure of it all that surrounded us and lately conformed us, shaped us--that pressure felt in our heads and hashtag-scarred backs--yet how our hearts felt for that squeeze of time where your satiny cherry-cola tresses must have been spiked (for I was drunk in milliseconds, like Byron trying to write with his bottle, too soaked and rambling to ever be an adventurer) and your skin was soft with experience like a lost piece of my baby blanket that I would keep to my face until it withered, your steady breath against the trembling crook of my neck, where my pulse beat like freshly formed wings in a chrysalis, fluttering with thoughts of total nudity (that most honest of forms), of escape from the coming-of-age, and fear--oh, I've sat in wheelchairs but never with such quadriplegia.
Get me anesthesia, ipecac, milk of magnesia, anything in a chalice, something for the paralysis that that fear caused in my throat, that made me want to go and wrench open my jaw with jaws of life to liberate those lepidopteran ideas of love in a full swarm butterfly bloom.
released September 17, 2013
Dana Levin, you may never read this, but without "Ars Poetica (cocoons)", Monarcadia would not even exist.
Link here: www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16866
All songs (music & lyrics) written, recorded, produced, edited, and mixed by Monarcadia (Alaric W. Lopez).
Thanks to Sid (Midas Bison) for mastering.
Thanks to YOU for listening, enormous thanks for appreciating and thinking.
Thanks to B for the cover art. This is for you.
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