Альбом Okkervil River

Here I am back home again
I'm here to rest
All they ask is where I've been
Knowing I've been West

I'm the family's unowned boy
Golden curls of envied hair
Pretty girls with faces fair
See the shine in the Black Sheep Boy

If you love me, let me live in peace
Please understand
That the black sheep can wear the golden fleece
And hold a winning hand

I'm the family's unowned boy
Golden curls of envied hair
Pretty girls with faces fair
See the shine in the Black Sheep Boy

I'm the family's unowned boy
Golden curls of envied hair
Pretty girls with faces fair
See the shine in the Black Sheep Boy

Some nights I thirst for real blood
For real knives
For real cries
And then the flash of steel from real guns
In real life
Really fills my mind

And I really miss what really did exist
When I held your throat so tight
And I miss the bus as it swerved from us
Almost came crashing to its side

Sometimes the blood from real cuts
Feels real nice
When it's really mine
And if you want it to be real
Come over for one night
And we can really, really climb

And those blue bridge lights might really burn most bright
As we watch that dark lake rise
And if you really want to see what really matters most to me
Just take a real short drive

It's just a drive into the dark stretch
Long stretch of night
Will really stretch this shaking mind
And this room, unlit, unheated
And the ceiling striped
And the dark black blinds

I want to know this time if you're really finally mine
I need to know that you're not lying so I want to see you tried
And I don't want to hear you say it shouldn't really be this way
'Cause I like this way just fine

'Cause there's nothing quite like the blinding light
That curtains cast aside
And no attempt is made to explain away
The things that really, really, really, really, really are behind

You can't hide
You can't hide
You can't hide

You can't hide
You can't hide
You can't hide

Black sheep boy,
blue-eyed charmer,
head hanging with horns
from your father.

Oh,
in a cold little mirror you were grown,
by a black little wind you were blown,
alone, alone, alone.

Cold smile on your lips,
you shake and shiver.
Some animal sips where the river flows
from a black little crack in a stone.
To a crackle in a radio song,
sing along, sing along, sing along.

Warm light when your eyes
fill with laughter.
Some animal lies in the pasture,
holes in its throat where the
blood was drawn,
in its mouth where the tounge
was torn by your claws,
your claws, your claws.

I rose from a dream;
We were running
from every being
that was hunting,
but we let them get ahead of us.
We let them lie in wait for us.
We're fucked, we're fucked, we're fucked.

I rose from a dream;
I had just destroyed everything
with one crushing blow,
and I woke up and watched it go,
and I woke up and wagged my tongue.
So long, so long, so long

I'm coming into your town.
Night is falling to the ground,
but I can still see where you loved yourself
before he tore it all down. April 12th,
with nobody else around; you were outside the house
(where's your mother)
when he put you in the car,
when he took you down the road.
And I can still see where it was open,
the door he slammed closed.
It was open, the door he slammed closed.
It was open, long ago.
But don't lose me now, don't lose me now.
Though I know that I'm not useful anyhow,
just let me stick around while I tell you, like before,
you should say his name the way that he said yours.
But you don't want to say his name anymore.
Oh, Cynda Moore.

Baby daughter on the road,
you're wrapped up warm in daddy's coat.
And I can still see the cigarette's heat.
I can't believe all that you're telling me,
what is cutting like the smoke through your teeth as you're telling me âЂŒforget it.âЂќ
But if I could tear his throat,
and spill his blood between my jaws,
and erase his name out for good, don't you know that I would?
Don't you realize that I wouldn't pause,
that I would cut him down with my claws
if I could have somehow never let that happen?
Or I'd call, some black midnight,
fuck up his new life where they don't know what he did,
tell his brand-new wife and his second kid.
Though I tell you, like before,
that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours,
you want no part of his life anymore.
Oh Cynda Moore.

don't lose me now, let me help you out.
Though I know that I can't help anyhow,
when I watch you I'm proud.
When I tell you twice before
that you should wreck his life the way that he wrecked yours,
you want no part of his life anymore.
oh Cyna Moore.

And it'll never be the way it was before,
but I wish that you would let me through that door.
Let me through that door.

Once we get to the end of this song,
then it wil begin again.

So you said,
in our bed.
I was watching light ship
through blinds to find your skin.

So take your medicine
and I won't ask where you've been.
Live your lost weekend.
I know you've wanted it.
Get big, little kid.

And I can't say why each day
doesn't quite fit the space
we saved for it.
But if that space now demands
that you throw up both your hands,
that you call it quits...

Take your midnight trip
I know you've dreamed of it.
Walk your sunset strip,
because I think you've needed it
to get big, little kid.

But just remember that our love
only got this good
because of those younger days
that'd you like to outstrip.
So drink your cup down
to the dregs and leave
that club shaking legs
with another guy,
but just remember: I'm not him.

Take your medicine and I won't ask
where you've been.
Live your lost weekend,
because I know you've wanted it
to get big, little kid.

And once we get to the end of this song,
then another will begin.

If you want to see and be seen, then be seen. Your dress is dark red and your opening eyes are bright green. Make a scene, but don't lie on the bed, laid out like you're dead, because honey, you're murdering me. Be a little sheep learning who'll shear and who'll feed. The hands come and they leave. Be hands holding a knife. Be a being on two feet, with his heart trembling, butchering for a king he believes in though he's never seen. Be the princess in that stone tower, crying for that handsome butcher's plight (and, as some princess might, she still calls him a knight.) But the best thing for you would be queen, so be queen. You're all that I need. Though I know that it never can be, I'd be pleased to post your decrees, to fall at your knees, to name all your streets and to sit down and weep when you're carried back through them and set down to sleep, and to lie by your side for sublime centuries (until we crumble to dust when we're crushed by a single sunbeam).

Hot breath
rought skin,
warm laughs and smiling,
the lovliest words
whispered and meant
you like all these things.

But, though you like all these things
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it's smooth and it's cold.
And you'd love most
to be told
that it's all your own.

You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone
you love a stone.

And I'm found too fast,
called too fond of flames,
and then I'm phoning my friends,
and then I'm shouldering the blame,
while you're picking pebbles
out of the drain,
miles ago.
You're out singing songs,
and I'm down shouting names
at the flickerless screen,
going fucking insane.
Am I losing my cool,
overstating my case?
Well, baby what can I say?

You know I never claimed
that I was a stone.
And you love a stone.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone
you love a stone.

You love a stone,
because it's dark and it's old,
and if it could start
being alive
you'd stop living alone.
And I think I believe that,
if stones could dream,
they'd dream of being laid
side-by-side,
piece-by-piece,
and turned into a castle
for some towering queen
they're unable to know.

And when that queen's daughter
came of age,
I think she'd be lovely
and stubborn and brave,
and suitors would journey
from kingdoms away
just to make themselves known.

And I think that I know the bitter dismay of a lover who brought
fresh brouquets every day
when she turned him away
to remember some knave
who once gave
just one rose, one day, years ago.

All the latest toughs, you've got to shrug them off or shut them off. With ten-thousand-time-told truths, you've still got to ask for proof. Ask for proof, because if you're dying to be led they'll lead you up the hill in chains to their popular refrains until your slaughter's been arranged, my little lamb, and it's much too late to talk the knife out of their hands.

Well, I woke up on a foggy morning. Hiding from the sun, he was hiding from the sun. But it came out and it shot its rays down. Burning everyone, it was burning everyone. But they were dying, anyway, to turn to ash, to feel their feelings flash and finally fade away, in a fabulous and fiery display.

Look, though, I don't know what notes you want to hear played, I can't think what lines you'd like me to sing or say, and I'm not sure what subjects you want mentioned. So pause and add your own intentions. We've included a form you can print out and fill out and send below:

All the latest toughs, well, we have seen that stuff, and we have seen enough blood in dying coughs, which means that we have lost. We have lost, and if you're crying to be tossed they'll toss you down the oubliette with all the old things that you let yourself forget because you'd like to love a star who'd throw you down below the ground he thinks you are.

Remember when our so-called friend would not call out to you while tumbling loosely out a hole punched through your home? It's pretty clear, though you could hear, you truly finally knew, in time, he'd tell his tale the way he'd like it told. Now he isn't on the phone, and his story might as well be so.

Well, loving is as loving does, and I'd say we should know, because we both have loved, have lost, and are alone. Your face's falling tears, to me they're lovely and they're dear, though you don't love me and it's clear that I will never see you in my arms. There's no room in your heart for even this finely-sharpened dart; although I had started to think there might be hope, it isn't so.

So wake up, make up some new song again around the same tune. The water cools, the leaves they fall, the sun it bends, the summer ends; our so-called friend doesn't need you.

So proceed out the door and down the street. December's lying near, but in the oven's heat this house is now a home. Sixty days of trips and stays you took to tell me, dear, that you cannot love me because you secretly still love a stone. Although I put my lips to your face, trying to push his kiss out of its place, although my heart started to race, now it has slowed, I'll let it go.

A black sheep boy revolves over canyons and waterfalls.
A black sheep boy dissolves in syringe or in a shower stall.
He says âЂŒthere's plenty of time to make you mine tonight,
there's plenty of time to make you mine.âЂќ
He says âЂŒthere's plenty of ways to know you're not dying, all right.
Hell, there's plenty of light still left in your eyes.âЂќ
A black sheep boy grows horns, breathing smoke through his microphone.
The airwaves stretch and they groan, bleeding, birthing his black diapason.
He says âЂŒthere's plenty of things to wear when you come to me,
every color of sleeve to be rolled.
There are millions of rolling eyes that still cling to me.
Every language of king is concerned.
So why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song,
that some liar laughed as he composed - some liar I loved to control?âЂќ
A black sheep boy dissolves in hot cream, in sweet moans,
in each dead bed and empty home, in each seething bacterium.
Killing softly and serial, he lifts his head, handsome, horned, magisterial.
He's the smell of the moonlight wisteria.
He's the thrill of the abecedarian.
(See the muddy hoofprints where he carried you?)
And there's plenty of ways to claim his crimes tonight,
and there's plenty of things to do on his dime.
And there's plenty of ways to wear his hide tonight.
You've got yours and I've got mine. So why did you flee?
Don't you know you can't leave his control, only call all his wild works your own?
So come back and we'll take them all on.
So come back to your life on the lam.
So come back to your old black sheep man.
He says âЂŒI am waiting on hoof and on hand. I am waiting, all hated and damned.
I am waiting - I snort and I stamp.
I am waiting, you know that I am, calmly waiting to make you my lamb.âЂќ

Come into the den
Come into the den
You've got a glow
You've got a glow

Climb into my arms
With blood on your clothes
You've got a glow
You've got a glow

And you're no ones but mine
And nobody knows
The lane where he's lying
No heat in his bones.

No heart that was mine
No hand that i'd hold
And you've got a glow
You've got a glow

And there's no escaping
The thing that is making its home
In your radio

Your light and alive
You're lithe and you're strong
And you've wanted to do that, my love
For so long

My live and dead men
Come into the den.
You've got a glow
You've got a glow.

No heart that was mine
No hand that i'd hold
And you've got a glow
You've got a glow