About "Wildlife" album:
This page contains lyrics from the album
"Wildlife" by La Dispute, which was released in 2011 and consists of 12 songs.
All Our Bruised Bodies And The Whole Heart Shrinks
So now tell me how your story goes. Have you ever suffered?
Did you get better or have you never quite recovered from it?
You find your lover laying in your bedroom with another and then
You let it hover over you and everything else well after the fact?
Show me all your bruises. I know everybody wears them.
Broadcast the pain–how you hurt, how you reacted.
Did cancer take
Your child? Did your father have a heart attack?
Have you had a
Moment forced the whole heart to grow or retract?
Does the heart shrink?
Tell me everything. Tell me everything you know.
A Broken Jar
So here goes,
One last letter now. One last attempt to
Make sense. Who have I been writing to? I'm not sure anymore. What have I
Been trying to accomplish? It's a mystery, I guess. Self-made secrecy.
Things get cloudy and now all these stories and
The struggle as an
Undercurrent, both get blurry by the minute both get blurrier.
Which voice is this then that I've been writing in? Is it my own or his?
Has there ever been a difference between them at all?
I don't know I don't know.
One last desperate
Plea. One last verse to sing. One last laugh track to accompany the comedy.
Have I been losing it completely? Losing sanity? Or has it been
Night fell on me writing this and I ran out of paper so I crossed the name
Out at the top of the page. Not sure why I'm even writing this. But I guess
It feels right. It sort of feels like I have to–like an exorcism.
Guess that makes me sound crazy but that's alright. Lately I feel like I
Might be, not that I've heard any voices or anything. Just like that
Everyday kind, where you forget things you shouldn't and you think too much
Maybe you know what I'm talking about. Or maybe you
Would have known? Or had known?
Is it once knew? I don't know what
Tense to use.
I know I never used to feel like this. I used to never
Think of death or hear voices. I used to feel like everything was perfectly
Everybody wants a reason for everything.
It's so much easier with
Someone or something to blame.
I've always struggled at the
Root of the problem.
Has it been absence or my constant lack of
I've never spent a lot on finding a remedy. I guess
I figured that it hurt for a reason. I guess
That's why I've always
Turned to writing it down. Not just in stories, but the letters in between.
And I guess that's why it haunts the pages of everything—to
I think the thing is that I shut off from
Everything. From friends and family and my own ambitions. From having fun.
I just shut off from everything. Self-defeating? Yeah, probably. But I
Third time writing you a letter, getting darker. I'm getting worse
I had a reason for the writing, but trying to
Exorcise my demons didn't work. To try to rid me of the worry and to purge
You out of wonder for the future and the hurt. I wrote a poem:
I'm increasingly aware I've been painting things in gray,
I'm increasingly alarmed by the pain,
I'm increasingly alive
To every cloud up in the sky,
I'm increasingly afraid it's going to
See, lately I've hated me for over-playing pain. For
Always pointing fingers out at everyone but Who in fact is guilty and for
Picking at my scabs like they could never break but they can and They will
Edward Benz, 27 Times
I heard the old man's voice break, stutter once then stop it. I
A sentence started confidently halted by the sudden absence of
A word. Stumbled and he sputtered trying to find it back, something once so
Simple gone now.
When he finally gave up told me, "Aw, it's like
Hell getting old."
When you came into the store, did you know you'd show me your scars?
I had a heavy heart, he carried a door, it's shattered pane all wrapped in
He asked if I could fix it, come by a little later help
Him put it back on hinges.
"See, I'm far too old to lift it and it's
Not for my house, it's my son's."
Like a shadow on a shadow, a phantom in a filmstrip,
Of the past trapped in mother's old slides.
Sits still in the
Apartment while sifting through some pictures
Of the child that he
Once was and the sense of hope they framed.
"It's a shame,"
And I fear that fate while the humming from the street keeps me awake,
He says, "I let life get twisted. Get worn out, torn up, and
Late with the rent.
And now nothing makes sense except the bench and
That piano. A feeling nearing
Order when I'm pressing down the
And he plays,
And it swells and breaks, but what'll it take to make my life sound like
I See Everything
Like any morning of my junior year I stumble in the classroom late but this
Day I see
Faces, I feel an air like a funeral, like a wake, as I sit
My teacher speaking, somewhat somberly, but still confident
Part eulogy, her speech, and part poem, part celebration
Her warmth and smile, she passes photocopies out to us of
Entries from a journal
Kept so long ago. She starts to read and
Suddenly it's 1980.
March 5—The cancer is furious but our son is resilient, we have all the
Faith we'll get through this no matter what the end. Treatments are violent
But he keeps on smiling. It's amazing finding joy in the little things.
Another shooting on the southeast side.
This a drive-by, mid-day,
Outside of the bus stop, by Fuller and Franklin. Or near there.
Not far from the park. About a block from where the other shooting was last
Or was it last week?
Shots were fired from an SUV heading northbound, Eastown,
The target a rival but they didn't hit the target this time.
They hit a kid we think had nothing to do with it.
St. Paul Missionary Baptist Church Blues
Stained-glass and the choir sing out that strong and ceaseless
So sweet the voices, sweep like leaves into the street.
On Eastern, a celebration carried on for God and hope and
To keep each other, life; give shelter from the storm. And
The congregation gathers outside in the parking lot, each
They keep the old hymn rolling on and on and
The scene in color each day driving out to Eastown,
Abandoned church and have I gone the same sad way?
Gone the same sad way?
Through the sixties flourished and the
Seventies in flux.
The eighties fluctuate each year unclear of when
The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit
After sundown, before sleeping, I am the worst of me. I am a mess of these
Old themes and the murmur of half-dreams whisper seductively and
It's fear fiction, these visions, caught somewhere between delusion and
What I haven't done, what I've wanted to, and what I fear you have
Becomes reality here.
Bright lights in the young night keep to the beat.
You And I In Unison
What will I find?
Some sacred thing to help me handle the tragedy?
Or did I once–Did I have it and lose it?
No one should ever have to walk through the fire alone.
Should ever have to brave that storm. No,
Everybody needs someone or
And when I sing, don't I sing your name out
Right at the same time
That I sing my own?
Some days I swear I can feel you splitting the light through the window
The shapes it makes are always warmer, always brighter than
The rest of what comes through.
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