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letra de driftwood - deca

(why don’t you look at your own garden? flowers all over
trees to sit under. maybe you look for paradise. remember… it’s not at the neighbors. cultivate, it is yours.)

driftwood down the river styx
once side’s scorched earth the other side’s triple six
which way to go from here, to flip a switch and strip away the old veneer emerging from a cave-like chrysalis
we sit and watch snakes slither off a grifter’s lips
one day it’s herculean feats the next sisyphus
earth angels sending signs, letters sealed with a kiss
assurance that it all will work out, the sky’s limitless, you get the gist
dismissed as riff raffle and rabble
while rousers in the midst practice witchcraft in babble
galactic motherships, magic tricks, astral travel
had to scratch the itch and went and bit adam’s apple
gather up your wits we battle with casted shadows
in chapel perilous they’re pulling rabbits outta black holes
maverick with a bic master cheffing at the expo
grab my oven mitts, season up the dish and presto

light blue abel, blood red cain
raindrops and violent flames
times have changed
he held his head in shame and fled the scene after
driven from the yellow grain and emerald green pastures
it’s knives at dusk or pistols at dawn
i hear the propagandist sing the same dissonant song
the theme music for the kamikaze mission we’re on
to strip the planet of it’s riches til the gettin is gone
bread alone won’t suffice, burning candle sticks at both ends
holding mics since i was shoulder height to gary coleman
the goal’s been the same since, to scope the whole terrain
taking note on everything observed to ease the growing pains
on city blocks at night you hear the sound of ghostly chains
on desolation row they’re roasting over open flames
on everything that’s holy and sacred my hope remains
redemption songs are like an antidote to poking veins
sometimes i over do it, spill guts like tetsuo
desperate for a world that’s less brutal
hoping that the future holds, fewer weapons forged in the crucible
beat em’ into plowshares to till soil
plant seeds and watch em’ grow
strong bough’s and branches where the birds sit
grandeur that a camera can’t capture but picture perfect
no statues of dead warlords caked in bird sh-t
more wrenches in machines attempting to fry their circuits

(what is red? a poppy’s red in it’s barley bed
what is blue? the sky is blue where the clouds float through)

- deca

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