Get all 10 Frances Livings releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of Coyote Moon, A Breath She Took, Ma Solitude, Ipanema Lounge, The World I Am Livings In, Ipanema Lounge Project. A Tribute to Antônio Carlos Jobim, Glory Me, Candy's Caravan, and 2 more.
1. |
A Breath She Took
04:06
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A Breath She Took
I savoured that little drop of ink
hoping it would spread
and weave dainty letters
curling into loops of loving words
pretty like lace doilies
in symmetrical perfection
I hung on to those words
cupping them in my hand
lightly weighing them
hoping, in protection
they would grow and blossom
and magically unfold
into cashmere coves.
I jumped upon that breath she took,
in between kitchen table ramblings
spreading like weeds, a mile a minute
I pounced like a cat –
straight out of that cupboard
onto that slot of discarded time
swatting that tic of the clock with my claws
and pulling each iron bracket
bookending that second
like an expander apart
A slot of vacant space
allowing me a cradle
allowing me for once
to simply speak my mind
But I just lost her
where was she going?
always confusing
I would follow –
I had to pay attention
into the labyrinths of her mind
I simply needed Ariadne’s thread
hoping for once just to understand
should I slip under her skin
or prop up a ladder and open her skull?
But perhaps, perhaps it was me –
perhaps I just didn’t understand
Perhaps I was the over-sensitive one
the ungrateful one
the difficult one,
the trouble-maker
the instigator
just too much imagination
always simply over-reacting?
So – I watched.
And I watched.
I watched the bread go stale
on that very tablecloth
a heavy clump of grains
a mould-riddled monument
for Demeter on her chariot
holding not a sceptre
but a sword in hand
still hoping it was me
who just didn’t understand.
That I had misread
her attempts
to nurture
perhaps.
She, who is said to love us before she meets us?
Frances Livings © 2011
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2. |
Goldfish Bowl
03:33
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Goldfish Bowl
A dish of cloudy water
and he laughed at me
gazing into the mud of my blue
billowing sheets of claiming smiles
kissing my forehead, patting my frown
reaching for a strand of hair
reaching for my beautiful gown –
Of silver, gold and turquoise-blue
in preciousness I’m clad.
But one by one and two by two
my scales are itching,
peeling – scab
dropping into a deep well
falling, like copper pennies
spinning, tumbling, beyond return
– no wishes to follow them though
Ghastly green fluorescent light
leaking into my globe
eyes so sore, a greyish-matt
the rays of life – an artifact
desolate thoughts, so none of the shore
rocks scraping belly, ascend?
No more.
But daylight is stubborn
bundled hope luring
falsely cheer-leading and patronizing
jeering at me through a magnifying glass
that merely scorches my skin –
the tide will soon be coming in
The waters will clean and wash up the drowned
but all I can hear is the seagulls
distant voices screaming
screeching and accusing
me and the world
me and the waves
accusing!
accusing!
I am so tired of combing my hair.
It should have been golden anyway.
Oh, lips?
A never blossomed English rose
I am tired, I’m tired and grey
and wish he would just go away
I’m swimming, no, sinking,
circling and drowning
drowning in a gold fish bowl
© Frances Livings 2008
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3. |
Ink on Silk
04:27
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Ink on Silk
I just want to say it!
but not just on paper
no draft in dull pencil
not well composed
no crossing of T’s
and dotting of I’s
no chicken feet scratch
but into the paper –
Hack! Hack! Hack, hack!
Onto the page and into the paper
with fierce metal fangs
H’s and T’s, K’s, M’s and P’s
each iron tooth a dedicated shape
a hammering clamp, a set impression
an instrument of precision,
digging its mark, a letter, a number
into your flesh, your pretty virgin paper
branding, without regret
without recall
Like ink on silk,
I want you to absorb me!
staining and travelling
branching out in a venography
no full-stop, no halt on a page
no shiny rainbow island of oil on water
I want to be drank by your blotting paper
entering your tissue
and soaking each cell
my pigment ingrained
my soul in a tattoo
ink on silk
not ink in a well.
© Frances Livings 2011
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Frances Livings Los Angeles, California
The London-born artist Frances Livings can be heard on a variety of recordings. Besides music, she has worked as a designer,
has earned a PhD in art history and is the founder of the music production company Moontraxx.
Drawing from these different life experiences has made her ability to both craft and tell a story very unique.
... more
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