Civic

Lyrics for Civic

I was in love with the fixtures And then beloved in the scriptures That were written by the hands of my hometown The ground looked good in the pictures But there was blood in the mixtures But I washed the wounds when the bounds of art surrounds. It was colour, taste, sound, and space, voice, and blás, and home, and place At wakes the faith was commonplace, til the chase of graves turned faith to hate The path to gray would rule your ways, they’d say you’d break and stain your day But the art got made, we’d remain unpaid, but alive in song Til we’d pass away. Now the only way that I find ease Is in the peaceful arms of mates In the worlds of written words And in the art of my home place I’ve gained some distance from the source Pray I return to those estates Where the ink would run forever And the songs filled every day. It was Proverbs and place names Unbothered and pay shamed 22 and driven by the written word. Now it’s Products and pay scales College and day sales But if I quit there’s no salvation in the hurt I’ll find no saviour in the dirt. I take the bins out, clean the floors, spend the night online indoors The drone and tone of constant scroll has grown the boredom in my bones I pay some fines that I’d ignored, and then the sun goes down once more Left the days on end The same again with no art that’s made or shown. But there’s a path I walk back home, I find peace with art alone The sounds and shapes within each day retrace each memory that I own My only roots feel overgrown, the working man is all I’ve known I find peace again as I grip my pen and I carve this endless stone. The only way that I find ease Is in the peaceful arms of mates In the worlds of written words And in the art of my home place I’ve gained some distance from the source Pray I return to those estates Where the ink would run forever And the songs filled every day. It was Proverbs and place names Unbothered and pay shamed 22 and driven by the written word. Now it’s Products and pay scales College and day sales But if I quit there’s no salvation in the dirt I’ll find no saviour in the hurt. In a burnt out Civic We were alive with the lyrics 25 and religious about the art and it’s limits I’m 32 and a cynic And I still miss the beginning When our dreams were just that And we wouldn’t sleep til we finished. In every first half visit I was alive with the spirit The sights were so vivid in every life long minute I was off but convicted I was sauced but was lifted Back when I felt some more freedom And I was just out there living. Before the gin and Guinness I was young and ambitious Seventeen and committed To both the art and my kinship Back then nothing was scripted And we bled for existence And felt the spirits of friends that had passed In each sitting. He was malicious and vicious In the shadow of sickness Beat to death over business and then he left without witness My brother left with the visions He faced his death on the bridges But then he talked himself down And put his pain into singing. I resisted then dismissed it Ignored the pain til it had shifted Left addicted and restricted until the art became conflicted But new ways paid me a visit I gave the pain its own eviction, wrote for days in praise Ya heard me say, I existed. I existed. Seventeen, next to me. Steps to sea. Done. Pressed to cheek, ten degrees, said he’s free. Dumb. "