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Kiss Me Thru The Phone


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There is no brighter light than that little five inch screen going off, and I see your name, trying to get through to me. What could it be? What’s on your mind? My line stays open day and night. I picked up and heard you cry, and hear you shaking, pleading. Speak softly, speak slowly, you’re breaking up and I’m holding every ounce of breath in my heavy lungs. Just to hear you say you love me. Kiss me through the phone.
Be released my love. Take everything you’ve built with me. Lock it in a heavy trunk and recede. A stream of beaming power, coursing through the galaxy. All four winds and earth and sky, converging now inside of me. Power of powers, changing, growing. Mutate into powers, unable to speak. The power of powers, loosed in the hours, where most men are silent and asleep. Dost thou hear it quaking? Fault line shaking, all internal lines now leaking. The blood of the powers, yours and mine are now ours. I am consumed with the power. What seems unbelievable is too often the thing that is the very thread that weaves together reality. Unbreaking and ever flowing, unrestrained and made for me. Two stars feeding on the blood of the eye of the one that doth all things create.
Dear Peaches, I am afraid. And that is hard for a man like me to say. I think about what happened to you with your baby in the next room. It only takes once and I know that the next one is mine. It’s coming for me. Stealthy and silent. It’s that black dog of you-know-what. And on the tenth birthday of Pixie when your mother gave in, I can’t imagine the damage you felt and how you must have thought that would never be you. Because you are young, and vibrant and free and wild. Two beautiful boys had your heart. Peaches, I know you didn’t mean it. I think of how many times I walked that same line. Those walls in that church in Davington, witness to your parent’s marriage, witness to the vows of your own and that black box that carried your mother home. How dark and diseased is this world that now it must bear the sight of your sons, toddler and infant, motherless forever. Your poor father and husband consumed with despair. Dear Peaches, I’m sorry. Peaches: betrayed by her body.
Walk forward unafraid. What can I do? There is an empty house, with furnished rooms full of light. And there I am in a black leather wing-backed chair. I keep thinking I am ready to go. I am ready to see. What’s left of me is of no consequence. What’s left to do is of great importance. I feel that I am never done. So what work may live on and on forever.
The light is right and the fever is high. Stay in this lane, now take a right. If you don’t feel right you can stop off for a sleeve of saltines and a can of Sprite. I know my rights. You know you’re right. But I love to gamble, even though I know it’s not right. To throw my dice on my last hundred bucks, but I could double my chances if you blow just right. I could turn our luck around. I could make your night. I could change your life. I could be that guy. I could win it all. I could pierce your heart. I could make you smile. I don’t even have to try. You just have to trust me. I’ve been as low as they go. And I’ve come back, every time with my skull still grinning. Do exactly what I say. Somebody’s going to get hurt, but nothing bad is going to happen to you.
In the seventh generation of the one named Cain was polygamist Lamech, and son Tubal-Cain. The son worked bronze and iron. His weapons were the pride of his father. What did Lamech see through his son’s eyes. Was he bloodthirsty as was his family line? Was the arrow guided by the blacksmith’s hand through the ribs of Cain (the first one to slay). We know what Lamech said. There were now two dead: a man and a boy. If Cain is cursed seven times, seventy-seven for the man with two wives. The song of the sword, the first poem sewn by the hand of Moses so we may be shown us men have vengeance in our hearts. We are dark by nature. Now in the field two bodies bleeding out. “Cursed is the line of Lamech for killing the man with the mark. Cursed is the line of Lamech, for killing that boy that was his son.” We don’t know why he has done the things he has done. The first sword was forged by Tubal-Cain and in its rookie year, two corpses made. The anger of Lamech.
Did you swallow your own tail again? Just to find out where the end begins. Feel your teeth sink into your flesh and open your eyes to a new hell, fresh. It’s inevitable and retraceable. The lines that lead you back read like a map. All the work laid out like a nesting bird will never keep you safe, will never keep you sane. No matter how hard you try you fall back. The plans you make in fear, the hopes held in earnest dissolve so sweet. Like sugar in coffee. Crying out a lonesome song with verse of warning. Chorus two times with words of yearning. Now to the bridge where the payoff comes. Jump off the edge, jump off the world. Love is love straight down the edge, just don’t ask me. It’s a nasty little thing. Go ahead and ask around. You’ll find no one knows and they still won’t stop. It has simply always been this nasty little thing.
Ever been trapped inside a memory? Afraid of what I’ll see. What dream might come to me, and where you will be. Almost every thing is a mirror that points back to you. I saw you in the window. Just outside your mother’s house. White hydrangeas on the lawn, and a waving American flag. Almost everything is a mirror that points back to you.
Have you ever found yourself as we all have, hunched over a pale blue light. In a room full of windows and black screens feeling my neck and my shoulders and my back scream. Dial one triple-eight four nine one zero zero six nine if you want to tow the party line. If you’re looking for someone to call just to hear a voice that’s not your own. If it’s been too long since you’ve seen that special certain someone and you feel alone. You can call me and tell me about it. I promise you I won’t tell a soul. Everybody’s got feelings. Everybody’s still hurting. Everybody’s got a phone. It just keeps ringing off the hook. I know who it is I don’t have to look.
Like a finger snap or a lightning bug or a drink of water a real big gulp. I was here for a second and then I disappear. Am I making you thirsty? Let me get a sip. n o t h i n g t a k e s m e o u t o f t h i s like you. Soft yellow light inside it flickers. I saw you in the window. I watched you kneel in prayer. I saw you light a candle. I watched you brush your hair. Slip down the spiral staircase of my mind and take me by the hand. Lead me to the distant softness between two mission style nightstands.
Even though I’m no victim and must share the blame I can’t help but think that you might feel the same. Are you cunning and sneaky or gentle and wise. Do you keep batting lashes to fake you’re surprised. Can you jump up like lightning with spring in your step just to walk on the air like a magic carpet. I smell flowers and perfume like roses and death. I feel fine. I feel fancied. I feel mesmerized. Drawn in the circle two times in an eight. Four eyes in the middle, two tongues in between. Jenny the jackrabbit, quick as can be. Flashing her blade as she flashes her teeth. Over and over a song that she sings. I think t those verses were written about me. A flick of the match. A dance of the flame. Is it eerie or pretty? Can it be both today? One summer night feels like a lifetime when you have a hole in which you hide. If I see you poking out I know it’s safe for me to come around. And I just might come around. What’s rare is the hare or the maiden that can’t be caught. If you see me out at night with one ear pressed to the ground I’m listening and looking and wishing and hoping.
Why only ever in a morning haze, when the pure white water into the cold earth sings, does the sky shine back in her milky dew? Where the cranberries sink, and I can taste your fruit. My turn to nature is turned right back. I wanted clean air, all I got was a laugh. Gravel and sand and peat and clay. I hear the word and feel the weight. Mysterious and changing, I grow ever impatient. Right in the rain my sensational death replays.


Starting in January 2020, A Pregnant Light operated a phone line. Once a month, and only for that month, a song was posted and could only be heard by calling a toll-free number. As 2020 became a year no one foresaw, the phone kept ringing every month, but the project remained steadfast. Callers had the opportunity to leave voicemails anonymously. There were accounts of anxiety, depression, joy, happiness, personal victories, defeats, heartbreak, and the occasional sexy message left on the voicemail. Every voice was heard. Thousands of calls from all over the world. Hundreds of messages, heard and disappeared, like the songs that played monthly. The messages will live in my heart and memory, as the songs you heard through your phone did during 2020. Now, you can replay those songs, and create new memories. The record is presented in reverse chronological order on purpose. As I spent time learning how to better hone my creative process, the songs became more strident, clear, and defined. Like the sacred ouroboros, we start at the end and that’s the new beginning.


released February 22, 2021

All songs by Damian Master. Recorded and mixed in Alto, MI and Los Angeles, CA by J. Wesley and Damian Master.
Photography by Olivia Mundwiler.


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