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lyrics

There is a kind of sex that expands, like the heart of man pickled in alcohol. It overthrows all walls and commands every view of the land from Bangkok to Nepal. There is a kind of love that is left when the doves and rest of the flocks have all flown. And Manley Hopkins, blessed, said it best when he swore that the Lord was a crested bird homed in on a target: Saint Sex! I want to touch you, Saint Sex. I want to trust you, Saint Sex – strap me to a rocket, let me do the rest.

There is a kind of hurt that dissolves like the sun on the tongue of a twenty-year-old. There is a clod of dirt that revolves round a great flaming ball, until it thaws or goes cold. There is a bowl of dust that is spilled on a lot that is tilled; there is a crop that gets sold. There is a kind of house doesn’t build, kind of cup doesn’t fill, a kind of hand that won’t fold. I want to hold you, Saint Sex. I want to scold you, Saint Sex. I want to fold you, Saint Sex – put you in my pocket, put you to the test.

There is a kind of game that is fun insomuch as you’ve won, or so you can tell yourself. There is a kind of name that is yours when you’re not on all fours, barking at your bookshelf. There is a kind of yours that is mine, overgrown like a vine, twined in our walls and our cells. There is a kind of more than can haunt, not a ghost but a taunt, and you will flaunt it yourself. I want to know you, Saint Sex. I want to show you, Saint Sex – point me to a socket, put me to the test.

Morning comes with a mutter: oh, the wind it hovers on the pond. We’ve been awake too long. We’ve been awake too long: every ember and other, oh, will be your lover and be gone. We’ve been awake too long.

There is a kind of glove that’s so soft it can only get off when it is being put on. There is a golden grove we can go: Margaret, don’t you know we can fondle the fronds? There is a kind of sleep that gets lost: like a mind, like a frost, like a hat that is doffed. There is a kind of song that goes on well beyond turning on and when the knob is turned off.

I want to know you, Saint Sex. I want to hold you, Saint Sex. I want to touch you, Saint Sex. I want to draw your last breath. I want to suck your last breath. I want to draw your last breath. I want to love you till there’s nothing left.

credits

from Take Me to Your Leader If You Know What I Mean, released October 17, 2015

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Supreme Fiction Durham, North Carolina

Supreme Fiction makes music about communists, existential crises, zombies, and lovesickness (and, of course, zombie lovesickness). The Carrboro and Durham-based five-piece creates melodic, energetic pop awash in sugary hooks and group harmonies, shot through with nervous surrealism, and tempered with submerged melancholy. ... more

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