Skin chars, Feed the fire. Death glows. Step into the pyre. I walk the streets of this beat-down city. Rabid dog is my way. Rats retreat; children scurry. Thieves cower. Women find refuge behind bolted doors. I wail my return. Triumphant. The taste of blood still fresh. Nurishing. Black eyes watch me from the shadows. I stop. They blink. I turn. They narrow. I continue, stomping the crumbling pavement. "Step out into open!" I wait, but none do. "Cowards stay hidden! Those who don't, die!"

​I wonder what it’s like to be in love.
Have you been?
I wonder what it’s like to be all in?
Have you been?

I’ve hunted and I’ve chased
I’ve wooed and I’ve cajoled
But I’ve never opened up
And met that one I call my own.

I dream and I play
I scheme and though I may
I’ve never given myself
To that one til end of days

I wonder where I am today
Or where I’ll be in the morning
I hike my pants and brush the seam
Wave goodbye like you never saw me

Pull up the covers, with a quiet kiss
Say I’ll call but it’s just the play
You know my name, I caught yours
I’m out the door and on my way.

Rennie Stihl lived four houses down on Ferncliff Terrace. He wasn't a best friend in the strict sense of the phrase, mostly because he went to Tristan Academy, a very expensive private school thirty minutes away, instead of Mayfair High School and because, well, he could often be a jerk. A few years ago, his parents sent him to Tristan Academy for "disciplinary issues" he had had at the local middle school--once dropping an M80 in a toilet during first period, the resulting explosion of which shut down school for the rest of the day and cost $2,750 in plumbing repairs. And he was a jerk because, as Rennie often said, "I'm misunderstood in my own time." I was never really sure if he meant it in a joking way, since he was rarely misunderstood and, if you had for some reason misunderstood his intentions, he surely would have made them clear to anyone who was listening. Or, perhaps, and I use 'perhaps' rather loosely, Rennie just wasn't self-aware enough to know that no one misunderstood him. They just didn't usually like him. Or care for what he had to say. Or care if that fall he took skateboarding off the six-foot-high wall behind the middle school actually hurt, or if his wailing should be interpreted in some other way. Say, with indifference.

"Wouldn't you just love to take a few of these youngsters, shake them, and say, 'Hey, just chill a bit. You're all like angry peacocks, trying to get yourself attention for no reason at all'?" he asked the woman.
"They wouldn't listen," she said.
"Of course, they wouldn't?" he said. "Ever listen to your parents? Ever listen to someone older and wiser?"
"I still don't. I still have to tell my mother what she's doing wrong. How she should handle my dad. My sister."
He turned to her. "Why is that? Why do we ignore the people who have been through it before?"
"It's the nature of humanity," she said. "We all develop believing we know best. When you're an infant, it's called exploring. When you're a teen, it's called rebeling. When you're in your twenties and thirties, it's called finding yourself. When you're in your fifties and sixties, it's called having a selective memory about what you did in all the previous stages."
"How's your merlot?" he asked.
"I could use another one," she said. As he gestured to the barmaid, the woman continued, "Of course, one of the bits of advice my mother gave me back in college was never to drink too much around a man. Need to have all your faculties, she said. And no man likes a lush."
"And you didn't listen to her."
​"I did not."

​"Curse At The Sky" was inspired by The Battle of Alesia, a military engagement that took place in 52 BC, between the Roman army of Julius Caesar and a confederation of Gallic tribes under the leadership of Vercingetorix. It is considered one of Caesar's greatest military achievements and a classic example of siege warfare, and effectively marked the end of the Gallic Wars.

#curseatthesky #lrics #alfredcmartino

'Til I Crumble Into Dust

[Verse 1]
Alone in the canyon of a barren wasteland,
Riding my golden Palomino steed.
Crevices carved at the corner of my eyes,
A woman's image is all that I see.

[Verse 2]
Years ago when I was a ruffian apprentice,
Making my way on a young man's crusade.
Had a revelation behind a farm house of,
Annabelle Dresden, most called her Jade.

[Chorus]
And the sun lays low (and the sun lays low).
Leaving me all alone (all alone),
Hunting a long shadow.
'til my spurs turn to rust,
'til I crumble into dust.

[Verse 3]
​Water splashed over her burnt bare shoulders,
Spilling down her hips onto the ground.
Manly thirst spurred then sputtered,
Boots shook but my mouth made no sound.

[Verse 4]
Her red ruby lips never parted in protest,
While a trickle of water moved toward me.
Run along, boy, she laughed, you’ve seen enough.
Remember it good 'cause you'll never be free.

[Chorus]
And the sun lays low (and the sun lays low).
Leaving me all alone (all alone),
Hunting a dark shadow.
'til my spurs turn to rust,
'til I crumble into dust.

[Bridge]
Like a kind of peculiar invitation,
The wasteland beckoned for me.
Where on the trail I'd heard the tale,
Of a man with savage desires,
Had taken away my Annabelle.

​[Chorus]
And the sun lays low (and the sun lays low).
Leaving me all alone (all alone),
Hunting a black shadow.
'til my spurs turn to rust,
'til I crumble into dust.

[Verse 5]
A man of cloth once offered me wisdom,
Son, be fearful of life if little ever changes,
Thank you, Father, now accept some back,
Better to take comfort when little ever changes.

[Verse 6]
A small wood cross marks the shallow grave,
Of Annabelle Dresden, a woman in totality.
I don't shed a tear and steel to the pain but,
Beware murder man, for you I'll have no pity.

[Chorus]
And the sun lays low (and the sun lays low).
Leaving me all alone (all alone),
Hunting the devil's shadow.
'til my spurs turn to rust,
'til I crumble into dust.

[Verse 6 (spoken)]
Chalky moutain outlines,
Dust cloud horizon,
Fiery sun high in a hazy-blue sky.
Still, nothingness.
A memory of Annabelle my only companion.
'til my spurs turn to rust,
'til I crumble into dust.


2019 Alfred C. Martino
#lyrics #songlyrics #tilicrumbleintodust

A lifeless wasteland.
[An infinite wasteland,]
Shelter unkind.
Is now the arena,
Our battle in time.

The murder of Fiona,
​[No god could fix.]
Gods couldn't fix,
My heart, my mind.
Set my soul in onyx,
[Stained my soul onyx.]

The murder of Fiona,
No god could fix,
A woman in total,
[A female in total.]
My woman idyllic.

"You're a gentleman and a scholar," he said.
"Bullshit," the second growled. "I'm an anarchist and asshole."
"You can be all four."
"No." The second man hoisted a mug the size of a bidet to his open mouth and poured in the mead as if filling a hole for a burial. "I'm a man of black-and-white." The empty mug came down on the wood table with a thud, that was lost among the rest of the thuds.
"No shades of grey?"
 "You're either at one side of the fence or the other," the second man said. "Anyone on the fence gets splinters in their ass."
The first man swiveled his head on his shoulder to glance around the boisterous, and spartan, room. "What brings you to this fine drinking establishment?"
"The plan is to break some skulls. Shake the night up a bit. Have myself a howling good time." He seemed to smile, but he was, apparently, not never good at that. So one side of his face lifted up, exposing a set of teeth, with many blackened and the rest missing.
The first man nodded. "Soon enough, the boys will be reaching that level of rowdy where they communicate with their fists more than their words. Or, rather, communication with their words leads to further communication with their fists."
The second man stood tall. He threw shade on the tables beside them. "My kida place."