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Transgander Pt. 2: Possibility is still our permanent address

from Houses by southern femisphere

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lyrics

with a sense of having lost some infinite thing (we plead in small voices)
she tells the infinite hegelian jest (holding onto the other)
she says the owl of minerva will fly only at dusk (we want to tell everything, but the page fills)
and so to cut down the owl’s three trees: the day must come with its axes (with the sounds of our language in twilight)

she'll try again/(but this isn't theory)
and learn to let leave/(it's visceral)
this time, better/(so stop theorizing)
failing better/(the self to death.)
she'll sing an ode/(i'll sing my own ode)
to beckett/(to beckett)
there are all kinds of freedoms/(that freedom you want i do not have)
there are all kinds of freedoms/(your mind my body)

she said, "the hardest five days or not"/(“don't be a fool,” he said, “a transgander won't bear a gayzling”)
you have something you must do/(then there's nothing to do but it)
("good morning," he sang,"i hear you. i see you")/she came she saw she heard
im (not) sorry i kissed him/(i (don’t) miss you i miss you)

looms weave and ominous; atavism, unbound, forbodes
trituration of woven wings; wings we ungiven, gave
but you gone and swept our wing-dust under the eyelid of the sky
grounded your feet now, like rose roots grow through your toes

our onward march/(there's a song about a heart)
proceeds in balks and round-about-faces/(it's a song like so many things that happen)
not in a confident eureka stride/(i want to walk away resolutely and fast)
but when i look up each morning/(and i won't hear your song)
the roof of my world opens/(communicatory bloodlines run too thick)
and through losing/(and we cannot seem to get through)
i am finding what i didn't lose/(there was a song about your heart)
and putting aside the machinations of a man/(about how the blood could not get past)

possibility is still my permanent address /(our freedom involves)
possibility is still my permanent address /(paying the most perfect attention)
("good morning," he sang,"you hear me. you see me.")/she came she saw she heard
she let go she let go (a world opens it opens)

my bedlam like cinnamon drank dreams, in dissolution throes
in the grip of my hum, there be whorling sounds, on your first page
in flying whorls: a golden owl, a fly-by-your-hands owl
we fall behind, like we had no whim trapped inside our wing

we were given to a liminal space.
we must not operate from scarcity, taking all.
we are rich; (and) we are possible.
and we must, out of this abundance, give all; give all.

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from Houses, released July 2, 2013

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southern femisphere Charleston, South Carolina

Southern Femisphere is into making melodies, harmonies, and rhythms that don't always make sense but usually work anyway. They find inspiration in small animals, strange animals, fantasy novels, and hot days at the beach.

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