It's Dinner Time In Fucking America

by Negotiations. & La Morena

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about

Negotiations. is Matthew Liam Healy. LA MORENA is Makayla Armijo. We've never met in person, but we recorded this EP.
"Just two friends, having fun."
If you wish to get in touch, please email negotiations( AT )wetheplural( DOT )com.

Thank you.

credits

released July 11, 2011

Words by Makayla Armijo.
Music by Matthew Liam Healy.

Cover by Makayla Armijo.

More art by Makayla: makaylaarmijo.tumblr.com

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about

La Morena New Mexico

La Morena is Makayla Armijo.
She is a Spoken word poet, artist and writer from Albuquerque, New Mexico.

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Track Name: Ciervos Y Lobos
que es sabio. la oscuridad se come su cuerpo como si estuviera hecha de sombras. la morena. y sus ojos caer hacia atrás de la cabeza. iluminar. sus ojos brillan en la distancia y comienza a aullar - ella puede escuchar y agitar sus extremidades delgadas. su tiempo para comer.
Track Name: There Is A Fire In The House, And I Am Inside The House
in favor of feeling - the modern pardon pleases your syllables sweetly forcing words, a sentence that makes the dead wish to speak again.
Heaven knows a heart will swell with regret - veins do flow such creative art through arteries - begin - deep. within.
and bones will bend and achy muscles can lend a penance built up on hands and knees - begging to please, and - be pleased.
Parts fall through figures; a finger to feel a friend again and failing to abstain can fracture the finest features in a face.

You will wear age like a suit in the sun.

Grooves carves in flesh with time, mine - will sprout from saddened eyes and mark the trail of tears - from previous years - the joints will wither like splinters from trees, and i will thank time, like withering twine, like withering leaves - for the spark that will set me free. a secret solace - my dwelling - named body.

procrastination does lay- overcast-ed cloudy eyes dimmed yellow and hair bleached from the sun will slowly cascade - each day coming, each day falling from a dusty grin to win - this broken heart. and the sun will rise again over this shaky earth and rays will beam through windows, causing heat and fire will burn us when the sun is rising - and we will burn with it
Track Name: It's Dinner Time In Fucking America
i think i know what you mean now. he lays his thoughts down next to his water-glass, and at times those questions arise, the ones i'd never ask... but all the while the sun goes falling falling down beneath the sheets that lay steady in the other room untouched before the dawn is gone... before anyone can whisper a word of the coming problems. our hands motion in perfect sync with the wine and day old toast we'd have consumed were i the host... but smartly we build up a world with the silence that sits inside the feet between you and me... and let the words speak for themselves.

the silverware rusted in candle light lit alone with life shinning on. warm with a haze in my vision - barely a glow softly flickering - but you can see it illuminating all the quietest sounds and - i think i know what you mean now. i think i know what its like to feel that now. it's almost time and we're running behind. who can believe that our coming years may posses the slightest will to unearth and confess - relic emotions dusty now, antiques - shared secrets made real by putting a hand to a face and seeing eyes upon themselves. to see a friend - but until then, rest - i will eat and you can sleep. i will prepare a face for you to meet. its dinner time in fucking america and i can hear the predators proceed to feed.
Track Name: Baal
with fear of falling and frustration installing - the field becomes barren and a drought drips not even a lick of spit to the earth- empty - engulfing every emission sent - crooked crosses engraved on graves cut underneath the salt beneath the cracks which run deep and defeated in the heat - like shattered bone the crevices moan with an empty mouth made wide and open left dry begging for something. but there's nothing to give. the river runs grand and great but not enough to spare for this square of acred land - not even a glimpse of loosened sand - just packed in - thick and thin - unshaken by rocky roads or loud crying wind.

listen - to the ghost town sing of wet waters glistening. dust to dust.
Track Name: Her Eyes Were Always Lit With The Light Of A Solitary Candle
so sentual, the secrets were sentimental - swayed and made silly but never sterile - sweet secrets swelled and so well up heald in this cage. so the lady came down from falling - a stumble through every page- a belated beloved worth the while but never the wait so she took the bait - steped straight into a somber state... and now, the idea brings such a smile - little to do but inflate. and though it is a ritual made past - when eyes are shy and batting begins - tiredness unfolds my heavy lids - i dream - of a meeting with him where hands can extend and fingertips will impend a light feeling grazing over giving full invitations to touch a secret stranger. a greeting cradled in dreams - how profoundly profane your eyes might wince at me, in reality, and i know how logical lives become with a sense of seporation- but dreams - dreams show me how hurried a belated love could become. so we were too different - opposed, at times, offended - and now opperative - some how, severely content. and how wise he has been all this time, an impression made on me that will stand the test -
i confess. and how feeble a frightened figment can find the fiction in my eyes, a shameful loss never prepped for prevention- i stand with conviction in my chest - where an over flowing feeling once did rest... beneath the sternum - dead center between both breasts. a feeling as real and brief as a single breath... and every breath there after. until death.
Track Name: Scoreboard
so, he says, so.

are we worth more than our imaginations let us know or is it possible that bodies break up a battle within? its nearly certain that we won't win. so, he says, so. does it matter how a phrase begins? and i say softly nearly singing a hymn to him. the head can only measure a percentage of people and a person's patron can only pardon a percentage within. equal. parts. so let's start - to question the final party, perhaps god and we can assemble to enable the perfect means - make measures - appraise the value - our praised predecessors have left us with - from cast to class but at what cost?


and so he says, so. how i say it is not how i mean. and men grow weary living within their means. and women grow wisely, with blistered hands and swollen feet. kept discrete, the heat - the beat and burn of self loathing and self with holding. the only illusion worth while is esteem. what does that mean?
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clarify the constant cables that contrast the picture and the perfect. take aim and make names for all departed, have they begun to fade away or did they even exist? please, I beg, i insist. what worth is left in this? has it declined, ran against time? the mark that's made me achy in the belly - the whole reason for the soles in your shoes, the soul in you - has been held boldly in that fortress of girth, whats it worth?