Found Music

I’ve been living in in-between land. In between a rock and a hard place, the darkness and the light, today and tomorrow, touch and feeling. For reasons of need and practicality, after maybe decades away from your great outdoors, love and she have driven me to graveyard sex. Who could ever have guessed the intricate undeniable joy amongst the tombstones?
We’d been there once before a few years back. During high summer we found respite, entwined in each other behind a stand of elder, a feast for mosquitoes, more focused on the top figure delivering the goods than the fuckee - bless her sweet heart. But recently the graveyard has served for our bed. The deep wooded dim back corners of old New England cemeteries afford the resourceful lover achingly lovely verdant pastoral privacy and solace, the better to recline on a cold stone slab.
So to sing praises; Old graveyards give tasteful peace and quiet. The Victorians spent lavishly on heady stones, mausoleums, and memorials to their parents and dead children, to their lost sons of that uncivil conflict. My love and I concurred recently, that bonin amongst recent graves would never do, all those short, uniform, unassuming, nearly military stones, like hopeless row houses for the departed, those could never host love. In the new cemetery, there seems to be a demand for too much sunshine, to help warm those ubiquitous cold markers. Economy demands a removal of every tree in a new graveyard. Give me the old, that sweet hereafter, a varied plot, so full of splendor, emotion, poetry and longing, clothed in old trees, and names so long gone even the visiting loved ones have too passed. They offer an embrace to our lust, hungry for the radiant life of each jarring hard thrust, each welt from my hand on her pretty bottom, and each pulsing jet of cum, dripping down to feed the flowers.
I don’t seek death or flirt with it as a silly fetish. I disagree with Freud you know. While sex and death may bear a psychic bond, I love and fuck for the exquisite now, squaring up glory on the sweet spot…. I long for a long haul, with many, much and often ahead of me. To lie so disposed near the bones of our elders, to spear the soil and taste her there, oh dear Christ give me life, please more, oh God more.
Townsend said, “I hope I die before I get old… to which my father responded, “Let me live until I die.” Let their perfect rest compel my stirring, my every step, and whisper the truth, the why I pull against the yoke. I know I’ll be with them soon enough;

(but damn don’t give me a shitty stone - You know she asked me just the other day, love’s sweat cooling in the September afternoon, how, upon my reward, I would have the living memorialize me: I’ve found my answer I believe. I want a spike, a main mast, a medieval lance, a  true ziggurat,  a concept cruise missile, in bronze or granite, a monolithic obelisk too crude for marble, a barely tasteful cock, hard as Chinese algebra, stiff against the winds of time, nestled betwixt two boulders, shamelessly happy in defiance, serving double time as a middle finger for those prudes who never fucking got me at all. If you, my dearest, can afford a spurting fountain in the pinnacle proud tip, all the better….)

I’ll die as sure as the sun shines, but till then God please hold me and give me the grace I’ve relished in this rare gift you granted me, to see you in these precious hours among those quiet souls you gathered back to you. I’ll be ready when you call, but until then I’ll till your fields, tend the stones, and I will reap.


Come, Thou fount of every blessing,

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;

Streams of mercy, never ceasing,

Call for songs of loudest praise.

While the hope of endless glory

Fills my heart with joy and love,

Teach me ever to adore Thee

May I still Thy goodness prove.


Here I raise my Ebenezer,

Hither by Thy help I’ve come;

And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,

Safely to arrive at home.

Jesus sought me when a stranger,

Wandering from the fold of God;

He, to rescue me from danger,

Interposed His precious blood.


Oh, to grace how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be;

Let that grace now like a fetter

Bind my wandering heart to Thee:

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it;

Prone to leave the God I love.

Here’s my heart, oh, take and seal it,

Seal it for Thy courts above.

Oh, that day when freed from sinning,

I shall see Thy lovely face;

Clothed then in the blood washed linen

How I’ll sing Thy wondrous grace!

Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;

Send Thine angels soon to carry

Me to realms of endless day.


Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing
By: Robert Robinson, 1735-90



I Will Follow You Into The Dark


Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white
Just our hands clasped so tight
Waiting for the hint of a spark
If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me
"Son fear is the heart of love"
So I never went back

If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
Cause we'll hold each other soon
The blackest of rooms

If Heaven and Hell decide
That they both are satisfied
Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs

If there's no one beside you
When your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
Then I'll follow you into the dark

Death Cab for Cutie

And so the yearning strong, with which the soul will long,
Shall far outpass the power of human telling;
For none can guess its grace, till he become the place
Wherein the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling.

Exerpt from Down Ampney, Ralph Vaughn Willimas
Bianco of Siena (?-1434) (Di scen di, Amor san to); ap peared in Laudi spirituali del Biaco da Siena; translated from Italian to English by Richard F. Littledale in The People’s Hymnal, 1867.

June by Julie Miller

The night that you left the sky started crying
The moon's face was hiding just like mine
When I was thirsty and lost
Like a true heaven's daughter
Darlin' you brought me water for my soul

There will never be another one for me
I know someday I will see you again
But the love you gave me will last until then

I never thought I'd lose you or that you'd go ahead of me
But now you rode instead of me on their angel wings
Did the lord call your name and did you take his hand
To join that family band once again

On a night in may all the sky cried for june
And an eclipse of the moon said that you were gone