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Rosemary Green

by Bruno Chávez

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1.
A Seagull 04:25
I am a seagull and I love the sea. The sea is a treacle that drips from my beak - Thick glue drips off my back as I pierce it. I am a seagull and I live in the cold. The cold is a blanket in which I grow old - Cool breeze carries me swiftly to my demise With all the grace of a merry aide. Sharp reflection catches the call of my eye, Gripped by the current and the tide. Vibrant images shaped to an avian form Cracked by the remnants of a storm. I am a seagull and I have a scream. It's echo mutated through my ancestry - Passed from my mother and Given from me to my younglings. I am a seagull and I dance with the void. The movements I carry are part of my voice - I tend to fly without punctuation. It comes to me in the spit of the light.
2.
I wanna laugh with the squid but I don't know a thing about their tongue. They got a lot of room to giggle in and Wriggle it about beneath the sun. Get to know their peers. Whisper in their ears and Get Weird. I wanna get to know cephalopod scripture and Listen to the droll of their figure-heads. I don't understand a bloody thing their tryna say - I guess that's it's the same for everyone else. Get to know their fears. Shout it into their ears and Get weird.
3.
In the cone of time there's a path that carves It's way through change. In the cosy warm of our adult forms We strain and shape To our future. In the hidden lives of the secret thoughts We never had There's a wisdom lost to another voice We could have used For our future... And though it's lost, it's a bitter blessing for me. Though we failed to listen to our tutors and Payed the cost, it's a bitter blessing for me. In the sequences that we failed to see Inside ourselves There are guiding lights that are flawed at times But drenched in beauty... And though it's lost, it's a bitter blessing for me. Though we failed to listen to our tutors and Payed the cost, it's a bitter blessing for me.
4.
God is dead. (but you already knew that didn't you?) They removed the atoms from her head. God is dead. Have you been to her grave? Have you taken her flowers. It's not very nice there.
5.
Peer through the window - Understand that you're welcome here. Turn the handle - See the mess that I have made. Wipe your glasses and Talk slowly. Sit down and Take a breath. Try to explain - You know things change. Why don't you come over here and See what else has changed? Speak to your senses. You can be so hard on yourself. Stay if you need to and Don't be afraid to leave. Wipe your glasses and Talk slowly. Sit down and Take you time. Try to explain - You know things change. Why don't you come over here and See what else has changed?
6.
Tucked inside the pocket of the streets Sits a mound that's morbidly discreet and On it's crest I hear their screams. Playing on the Grass at Rosemary Green, Local children - ignorant it seems that Lying underneath their feet, The workers secretly deceased, So many names Rosemary Green, you hide them well. Hidden in the cemetery of time, Workhouse families gave away their lives and Put their bodies on the line. Taken to 100 Fishponds rd, Four thousand individual souls are Lying underneath our feet, The people secretly deceased, So many names Rosemary Green, you hide them well.
7.
Blood takes to my brain: Oxygen And helps me remain The Quivering wreck that I am. It dribbles down my chin When I cut myself shaving in front of the mirror And drips down the sink Into the cold, cold, cold, cold stone. Rub into my wounds: Earth and wood. It's bitter and good - Reminds me of being child. I like to climb trees. I used my hands and my feet, It's a long way to fall and If I do then I'll bleed Into the cold, cold, cold, cold stone.
8.
Have fun, curious child, Pick at your nose till it bleeds and dries. Keep on, curious one. Your body's your own to explore and learn. The boundaries are there to be found and broken. You have whiskers in the corners of your skin Behind the marks and hidden in darkness. You have puddles where the bruises used to be And soon you'll have more and they will be sore. Be strong, volatile thing. Nuzzle the tenderest grooves of your fear. Don't stop, little force. your thoughts are your own to admire, engrossed. The structures are there to be shattered and opened. You'll have doubts creeping in beneath your pores, Changing in volume, obscuring your victories. Keep them at bay with rituals you devise - Unspeakably yours and steeped in allegory Carve them out with the wedges of communication Oh bodily born, Oh carnally embellished . Emphasise and peak through your vitality Until you die and are buried by the ones who loved you.

about

A series of existential folk songs recorded in my bedroom. Rosemary Green is a small patch of grass behind my house - hiding what was once a mass grave for a Victorian workhouse.



Thanks to Billie, Rose, Mum, Dad, and all my friends.

Mastered by Max 'Hurtdeer' Peake.

Cover photo by George Charkviani.

credits

released June 12, 2020

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Bruno Chávez Bristol, UK

Making music for your ears.

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