andcuriouser
Active Member
I didn't write this. Matt did. But it's probably one of my favourite things he's ever written, only partly because it's about me, mostly because his style of writing is so damn amazing. Feel free to ask about the wording of things--it's meant to be sung, but I sadly don't have a recording of it; it's beautiful. But Matt's syntax can get a little intense. He's big on counting syllables. Also, I'm willing to clarify any meanings. Matt uses a lot of made-up slang, and references a lot of events that no one else but us would really know.
Also, if you don't catch it (although I don't see why you wouldn't), "I" is Matt, "you" is me, and "her" is Eliza, his ex-wife, although still his wife at the time of this writing. So, although I'm in love with it, it's probably not the happiest piece.
Dragonfly (Thank You Song)
(copyright Matthew Trope, 2002-03)
It starts with you in that bar where we escaped from the rain,
slipping gripless across the room, as if the room will say:
“You should move more cautiously, or you will trip into open spaces.”
And behind the factory you tripped, screaming out at the forestry,
as if it had no right to grow there.
I took you down and we went right to the salted sweater,
although we fought against it all along.
Then you slept in my shirt on the sofa,
trying hard as hell to stop thinking of her in there;
couldn’t stop the scream of the bedsprings.
She let out a moan, then I slept, and you tried to calm down.
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
You said, “If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
We were on different times of the day,
and we hit every wrong angle like a twisted left ankle.
And if we made enough hurt for each,
then we’d make up or make out until her car pulled in.
Your expression,
deliberate,
against the headboard,
and all the breaths you took gave me an elephant eyelash.
If we were guilty of sin, then I’d say,
it seems the arch of your back is all the church we’ll need.
But don’t forget the bad sleep, there was more heartache then.
You’d just swallow the smoke, and follow again, until death.
Assuming all the ease of this exists, it can’t, ‘cause her round claw,
it grazes my blisters.
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
“If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
Christmas day, I stayed in bed with the common cold;
more of an excuse to lay with all the things that you’d made me.
I swallowed the smoke, and followed again,
and I did it with my eyes closed, thinking of you.
Unshowered, oiled, you are wide-awake, crepuscular,
between the mattress and the excess of bedding,
frowning in your drug-dry sleep.
When you ask me to touch your pulse,
I tell you, “Don’t worry about it.”
You want a comfort you can carry around.
What do you dream of while I tongue you down?
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
You said, “If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
You know my behavior,
know my size,
the degree to which my eyes are astigmatic.
There it is. I just felt like sharing that, since it's something very dear to me. Ask me about the meanings... I love talking about this thing.
Also, if you don't catch it (although I don't see why you wouldn't), "I" is Matt, "you" is me, and "her" is Eliza, his ex-wife, although still his wife at the time of this writing. So, although I'm in love with it, it's probably not the happiest piece.
Dragonfly (Thank You Song)
(copyright Matthew Trope, 2002-03)
It starts with you in that bar where we escaped from the rain,
slipping gripless across the room, as if the room will say:
“You should move more cautiously, or you will trip into open spaces.”
And behind the factory you tripped, screaming out at the forestry,
as if it had no right to grow there.
I took you down and we went right to the salted sweater,
although we fought against it all along.
Then you slept in my shirt on the sofa,
trying hard as hell to stop thinking of her in there;
couldn’t stop the scream of the bedsprings.
She let out a moan, then I slept, and you tried to calm down.
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
You said, “If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
We were on different times of the day,
and we hit every wrong angle like a twisted left ankle.
And if we made enough hurt for each,
then we’d make up or make out until her car pulled in.
Your expression,
deliberate,
against the headboard,
and all the breaths you took gave me an elephant eyelash.
If we were guilty of sin, then I’d say,
it seems the arch of your back is all the church we’ll need.
But don’t forget the bad sleep, there was more heartache then.
You’d just swallow the smoke, and follow again, until death.
Assuming all the ease of this exists, it can’t, ‘cause her round claw,
it grazes my blisters.
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
“If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
Christmas day, I stayed in bed with the common cold;
more of an excuse to lay with all the things that you’d made me.
I swallowed the smoke, and followed again,
and I did it with my eyes closed, thinking of you.
Unshowered, oiled, you are wide-awake, crepuscular,
between the mattress and the excess of bedding,
frowning in your drug-dry sleep.
When you ask me to touch your pulse,
I tell you, “Don’t worry about it.”
You want a comfort you can carry around.
What do you dream of while I tongue you down?
There was a moth caught in your throatspace, strangling you still alive.
Can you still recall it that well?
You said, “If we don’t get to say goodbye.”
Red wine, dragonfly.
You know my behavior,
know my size,
the degree to which my eyes are astigmatic.
There it is. I just felt like sharing that, since it's something very dear to me. Ask me about the meanings... I love talking about this thing.
