This song was written after having a weird dream about my first "real" boyfriend, Tom, who I met at a summer camp in New Hampshire. I'm sure he grew up to be a golden boy, with all the right things that a golden boy should have, but for a few months when I was 17, he was everything to me.
Still Worx
(c) 2013 Cathe B. Jones, (ratmando band)
head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat
Memory of youth when pressed leg higher than the walls reach
being still with cycles rooting through the click tracks of the beach
molted sun, earth will be done, bedsheets now are flattened skies.
heart beats as alarming, stars beguiling, and under it all, lies.
everything still works, still needs still hurts, still feeds a lowing ache.
touch just there, just below near and watch the hunger fade.
You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.
Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.
head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat
You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.
Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.
Second lyric today- I spend a lot of time with my music and art in my house, and I live nearby Red Rock Canyon. The opportunities to create in this environment are great, but it seems like no matter how much freedome I have, or how much I am given, there's always rules to follow. In the desert, you aren't supposed to play music in the public parks as it's too loud, however, you can, apparently, scream at your family, call people names, get wasted and leave trash everywhere. Or you can't and some people have more self-freedom than others. So that's Freedom, a tale of conditions.
Freedom is a misnomer, it seems to be only structured at best,
Cages are bigger, and the air is bigger, but we’re just caged, like the rest
The activities are far more covert, and the undercover is deeper than that.
The smiles are so much bigger when the cage keepers hold the keys back.
The names are crossed out but the punishments the same again,
You can’t do what you want, or think how you think again.
The only real freedom is the moment you take your first or last breath.
The only real freedom is the moment you take that first our your last breath.
There are glimpses of self possession riding on the waves, or high above
Flying out the clouds on hanging on the kites, or in the trails, or in the sighs of laughter
But fleeting moments, fleeting moments
There are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it, can you? Not really.
You can try to touch liberty, you can try to see what freedom means, not knowing, really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.
Freedom’s not part of this world, it seems to be structured at best
Those who wish to speak their minds must pay the prices to the rest.
Presumed protectors of our rights are stabbers with pens in the night and
The blood runs deeper when they cage keepers try to push away the plans and
The names crossed out from freedom front sighing history at best.
No one can say how they feel, or how they think again, again.
None of the freedoms that we’re supposed to have exist for you and me.
None of the freedoms we’re supposed to live ever exist for you or for me.
You could imagine there’s some place where anyone can breathe and scream
You can imagine there’s some places where we can breathe or scream
You can’t imagine there’s a place where you can bleed and scream in freedom,
In freedom the only place free is in birth, death or in dreams.
Then there are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it.. not really.
Can’t touch it, maybe moments, in micro minutes, and moments, not really.
You can try to touch the liberty you can try to see what freedom means,not knowing, not really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.
Fly with me and ride the waves and fly with me and ride a wave and fly and ride. and fly...
(c) cathe b jones (words and music, just like all songs)
Still Worx
(c) 2013 Cathe B. Jones, (ratmando band)
head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat
Memory of youth when pressed leg higher than the walls reach
being still with cycles rooting through the click tracks of the beach
molted sun, earth will be done, bedsheets now are flattened skies.
heart beats as alarming, stars beguiling, and under it all, lies.
everything still works, still needs still hurts, still feeds a lowing ache.
touch just there, just below near and watch the hunger fade.
You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.
Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.
head still above my shoulders, shoulders drowned in inner depth
heart placed near the couch on sundays, or on the sundae in the bed
the taste of warmed grass mowed summer smoothly drinking in the night
the taste of sweat and curled lips pursing, piercing time, timed right.
mountain ranges shaped so strangely curled this away and that.
two hands held one finger pressed so tightly through the fat
You couldn’t fit this find in another’s mind.
You couldn’t walk this path on any back.
You couldn’t taste this life, with the dullest knife.
And it seems to be the same again. It seems to be the same.
Still works through the history and the mysterious past refined.
still works though the mystery’s gone, and then only in the mind.
tickticktick and licklicklick and kickkickkick it out of the sky
beatbeatbeat and eateateat and flower fountains up just to try.
It still works brother, won’t you taste what I’ve made?
It still works brother, won’t you face it when laid?
That rumbling calling and breath that’s cowled in blue.
Racing blood, when it done, a little bit of life has died.
racing blood when the fun has ended it’s all inside.
Second lyric today- I spend a lot of time with my music and art in my house, and I live nearby Red Rock Canyon. The opportunities to create in this environment are great, but it seems like no matter how much freedome I have, or how much I am given, there's always rules to follow. In the desert, you aren't supposed to play music in the public parks as it's too loud, however, you can, apparently, scream at your family, call people names, get wasted and leave trash everywhere. Or you can't and some people have more self-freedom than others. So that's Freedom, a tale of conditions.
Freedom is a misnomer, it seems to be only structured at best,
Cages are bigger, and the air is bigger, but we’re just caged, like the rest
The activities are far more covert, and the undercover is deeper than that.
The smiles are so much bigger when the cage keepers hold the keys back.
The names are crossed out but the punishments the same again,
You can’t do what you want, or think how you think again.
The only real freedom is the moment you take your first or last breath.
The only real freedom is the moment you take that first our your last breath.
There are glimpses of self possession riding on the waves, or high above
Flying out the clouds on hanging on the kites, or in the trails, or in the sighs of laughter
But fleeting moments, fleeting moments
There are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it, can you? Not really.
You can try to touch liberty, you can try to see what freedom means, not knowing, really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.
Freedom’s not part of this world, it seems to be structured at best
Those who wish to speak their minds must pay the prices to the rest.
Presumed protectors of our rights are stabbers with pens in the night and
The blood runs deeper when they cage keepers try to push away the plans and
The names crossed out from freedom front sighing history at best.
No one can say how they feel, or how they think again, again.
None of the freedoms that we’re supposed to have exist for you and me.
None of the freedoms we’re supposed to live ever exist for you or for me.
You could imagine there’s some place where anyone can breathe and scream
You can imagine there’s some places where we can breathe or scream
You can’t imagine there’s a place where you can bleed and scream in freedom,
In freedom the only place free is in birth, death or in dreams.
Then there are moments when you can see it, but you can’t feel it.. not really.
Can’t touch it, maybe moments, in micro minutes, and moments, not really.
You can try to touch the liberty you can try to see what freedom means,not knowing, not really.
No one knows for real, not really. But I know jail keepers when I see them,
they’ll try to be well mannered, and they’ll try to be well statured
They’ll try to waltz with you into their prison walls.
Fly with me and ride the waves and fly with me and ride a wave and fly and ride. and fly...
(c) cathe b jones (words and music, just like all songs)
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