“God lives at the end of our ropes, when we realize our paper crowns sit on top of beggars’ cloaks, when we see that we’re really just skin and bones, when our egos have been overthrown.”
—Beggars’ Cloaks (spoken word)
July 2011
34 posts
The Prodigal Son
Tenbrook
Gave spoken word a try. I mean I figured if I’m an English Major it had to happen sometime haha. Forgive my many mistakes in the recording. Thanks for checking it out.
CT
THE PRODIGAL SON
I remember every night I spent between my sheets,
sitting up, and staring up and wondering if my God could hear me,
but all I could report were echoes from my ceiling,
no there’s no way that my God could hear me.
He was sitting in the corner like he’d always been,
he was sitting there and not once did he make the move in,
and I bled, and I wept, and I drank and I slept,
and I can only imagine how much shit I was in.
But it wasn’t about them it was all about me,
it always has been and it probably always will be,
because that’s just the type of guy that lives in this country,
that’s just the type of guy who turns out to be something.
They say: “You want to get to the top, well then care for yourself,
you want to cash up the pot, well then don’t share the wealth,
because at this bus stop, there’s no room for someone else’s health.”
But for about eleven years I think I’ve known the truth,
for about eleven years I’ve heard a voice say “Kid, I’m coming for you,”
but I’m an addict,
I always have been,
and a few pretty words aren’t going to change that, then,
I’ll need something a little bit stronger,
a dose of medicine that will last a little bit longer,
because I’m tired of puking with my head between my knees,
I’m tired of praying to a God I claim not to believe, in.
So one day I lifted up my head and I looked towards my home,
I stood up, I raised up, and suddenly I didn’t feel so alone,
I was preparing my speech,
and I was trying so hard not to me,
because there’s no way that I’d let the Old Man’s eyes see,
exactly what the world had done to me.
From that very first step I knew I was screwed,
my ribs, and my lungs, and my face, had all turned blue,
but something kept pulling me towards a place I’d never known,
that little voice kept saying “Son, you’re almost home.”
I battled with my self over every last step,
because for addicts the world is full of things that can’t be left,
but they were.
Like dead trash behind me,
I left every last tragedy,
every bag that was much to heavy,
for me to be carrying.
And I was still a long way off and I don’t know how he saw me,
but he came running down the hill and I thought he was going to maul me,
but he hugged, and he grasped, and he kissed and he wept,
and he said “My son, I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited for this.”
And in all my life I’ve never felt so loved,
in all my life I never expected God to come running from above,
because if theres one on earth who isn’t worthy,
look my name up in the oxford dictionary.
I tried to bargain with him to clean up my mess,
but he held my face in his chest as he constantly wept,
and suddenly I felt my soul begin to give in,
suddenly it was no longer this world I would live in.
He pulled up my face and looked into me,
he said “My son, my son, my son, how glorious you are to me,”
and in all of my life no drug or no drink,
has ever come close to what he’s allowed me to see.
Someday soon I’ll get old and I’ll be ready to die,
and as I lay in my bed I promise you my lips will cry,
“My God has conquered the gave,
my God has given me the power in his name.”
Goose bumps,
he trumps,
the world I once loved,
because I looked up,
and I sat up,
and realized I was a bum,
but now my tape plays a much different side,
now the power found in His grace: I’m still alive,
So,
to those of you who still feel it,
to those of you who still pray your prayers to your ceiling,
to those of you who still weep in your bed,
to those of you who think you’d be better of dead,
come home.
I know you’re lost, and broken, and tired, and confused,
I know you’ve been chewed up, and beat up, and turned black and blue,
but my God’s heart aches for you,
and let me tell you he has enough Grace, to
clean you, and heal you, and make your world new,
scars, chains, debts, and remorse all removed.
Weep no more. My God is coming for you.
Play
A Diner Table With Checkers on Top
“Of course I wouldn’t do that.”
there, you’ve, but, so, tell
“Well maybe I would, but only if I really needed to.”
is, been, now, you, me
“You know Cindy, from work, she has one,”
a, there, you’re, avoid, sister
“but I don’t think it’s the thing for me.”
field, before, old, the, when
“Oh, sweetheart I’m rambling on and on;”
with, as, and, field, did
“light me a cigarette, won’t you?”
knee, a, the, at, you
“Dear, are you all right?”
high, damn, grass, all, go
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
grass, child, itches, cost, die?
I thought:
There is a field with knee high grass // you’ve been there before as a damn child // but now you’re old and the grass itches // so you avoid the field at all cost // tell me sister when did you go die?
“I truly wonder how many more apples Adam ate in his lifetime.”
—Christian Tenbrook
“And when the day of Pentecost was fully come, they were all with one accord in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting.”
—Acts 2:1-2 (KJV)
Why Don't You Just Sleep?
This is a piece by my good friend Josh Kaye. He is a very talented Artist, Designer, and Writer. Be sure to check out his blog here.
___________________________________________
You’re standing outside your closet, and Inside your closet is your father’s gun, and inside that gun is a firing pin and four bullets, and inside those bullets is gunpowder, which came from inside a rock, which came from inside the earth, the same earth that the first man came from, which is essentially where your father came from, which is essentially where you came from. Now inside your hands is the pistol and your best friend is asking you what it feels like to have your hands inside the pistol and your best friend is filled with blood. But now the gun is in your best friend’s hand and your blood is not inside of you anymore, it is coming out of the same place that the bullet is buried inside of, and he says he’s sorry and that it was an accident, but the pistol is back in your hands and the doorbell is ringing and you run to the door to answer and on top of your doorstep is a doctor and in his hands is an emergency bag, and he ask’s if the woman with narcolepsy is inside your house, in the kitchen, asleep, but he has the wrong address, but your best friend has a phone inside his hands and inside that phone a number has been dialed and inside a cable somewhere, electrons are running back and forth asking for help, but he has the wrong number and the doctor asks you if you are the woman with narcolepsy, and you say that you aren’t, that you don’t, and you wake up.
“Someday I’ll be buried under six feet of dirt, you know? Doesn’t that ever strike you? I mean let’s cut the proverbial bullshit for a few moments and we’ll realize someday I’m not going to mean anything to anyone at all. The shitty part is, I think it’s been happening for quite some time now. I mean I try and fight it; we all do, but it comes just the same. I drove to a grave yard the other day. I honestly have no idea why. I was driving, and I didn’t really have much to do, so I just stopped and listened. It wasn’t poetic, it wasn’t scary, it wasn’t really much of anything, but it was true. I stood above a hundred graves, smoked a cigarette, and waited for the wind to change so I could get back in my car and leave. It never did. That’s what scares me I guess. The wind never changes. Life blows itself through tree-lines, over unkempt grasses, and over a cliff’s edge into the ocean, keeping its course. Who the hell am I to tell it different?”
—Christian Tenbrook
“The memory of an era is a daft sort of beast; each sense holding a partial recollection all combing to form a whole. The swelling of a breeze, a tongue of burning things, an ear of undead leaves, a smell of unwashed sheets, and the image of bricks: this is now.”
—Christian Tenbrook
Living In Colour
Living in Colour by Frightened Rabbit
The Modern Leper
Frightened Rabbit
Modern Leper by Frightened Rabbit
Cave Abandoned
We ascended from the caves,
mining men returned to plenty.
Covered body shapes,
with gentlemanly symphonies.
The spots of flesh decayed,
have heal-ed glory infinitely,
and God himself did say,
“Welcome to the plenty,
Sons, welcome to the plenty.”
This is the song,
my chest was composing,
In the ground.
This is the anthem,
my lips were waiting,
to form around.
God, I’m hoping that you see,
the lack of black in me,
This is the anthem for something,
this is the anthem for something.
I’m reviewing all the tapes,
disconnected mysteries.
Watch, now the body breaks,
a heart returned to misery.
A cycled, boorish way,
to be living as the former me.
The heel side backwards pace,
was a little bit too much for me,
it was a little bit too much for me.
This is the song,
my chest was composing,
In the ground.
This is the anthem,
my lips were waiting,
to form around.
God, I’m hoping that you’ll see,
His lack of black in me.
This is the anthem for something,
this is the anthem for something.
We walked down glory’s hill,
the banner of our company,
raised in the hands of sinners, still,
the red paid badges of glory.
When the trumpet calls us near,
we’ll run with faces turning,
from the writhing version selves,
a memory now burning,
Dead man, you’re a memory now burning.
This is the song,
my chest was composing,
In the ground.
This is the anthem,
my lips were waiting,
to form around.
God, I’m hoping that you’ll see,
His lack of black in me.
This is the anthem for something,
this is the anthem for something.
And when I,
abandoned,
The darkened, greedy cave,
I saw I,
was stranded,
beneath the weighing grave,
Now I’m flying,
I’m flying.
I’m flying,
I knew I could
I knew I could.
This is the anthem for something.
this is the anthem for something,
this is the anthem for something,
this is the anthem for something.
