Mouha

by Ekra

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02:52
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04:22
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06:10
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01:10
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credits

released July 1, 2014

Ekra is:
Mrs. Press - drums/vox/keys
Mr. Press - bass/vox/keys

additional musicians
Mara Mayer - bass clarinet
Ralgy Cepeda - backup vox
Megan Kerper - backup vox

written, recorded, produced, and mixed by Ekra at Room 12 Records
mastered by Ray Marte at Westfall Recording Company

album cover photo by Liz Bekesz

tags

license

all rights reserved

about

Ekra Queens, New York

contact / help

Contact Ekra

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Track Name: EVZ
Experts are hovering.

Sunrise on the floor,
we saw sunrise get mirrored
in two / into.

Sunrise in a jar,
we saw sunrise get mirrored
in two / into.

Sunrise through the jaw,
we saw sunrise spit mirrors
in two / into.

Experts are hovering.
Track Name: Queens Crawl
Can you forgive your young,
carving nickel silver wings with a jeweler’s saw;
small soft hands epoxy them to scapulas.
You were young, closed your eyes,
everything was SMPTE;
multifaceted screens broadcast soliloquies.

Telenovela mothers perched like grotesques
in the laundromat.
Their gravid guts filled with lather that feels like
the rented cats that help you nap.
Pazuzu’s blowing lucite bubbles in the crook.
Third time i killed my kids, caulk callery pear,
all i’ve got is names, we’d raise them the same.

Another drink and i unfurl.
Start to flex my essex muscle.
Flannel flowers rot.
Giddy pirouettes.

Sunday service girls lean on blue doors
their thighs thick meat.
Milkmaid’s yoke soldered silver skeletons on wood display.
We become our parents, antiques consigned;
our fucking as meaningful as artificially inseminated bulls.

Black girls in blonde wigs sing a flat national anthem
on youtube--
everything seems right with the world;
everything is right tonight.
Track Name: Tepidarium
An eiderdown of drowned dragonflies;
punch a hole for every drought.
Got our heads filled
with 'Ferragosto Four' lights.
Lights.
At night we sham a red lamp,
coppice, our legs a compass,
morning embers juxtaposed by sun.

Plaques for czars in soot and flies
incised: “We don’t miss July. You were always despised”.
Strain starts to scramble like stoneflies.

Mama out under hell’s abutilon,
I don’t wanna go with you.
burning piles of gold antlers,
I don’t wanna go with you.
A planet of more than 26 bones,
abulia.
I don’t wanna go with you.

Marry off all mothers to mate.
Morning yawns, and a brazier of caul.
Prime for a bath of citronella and seaweed--
I place my palms on your belly,
a glass box of biorhythms
as i breathe through white cap above your knees.

Vaccine advice the voice,
worth the view.
Vignettes advice the voice,
worth bloom.
Track Name: Myiagros In The Waiting Room
Do I feel myself dying over breakfast,
over the moon, over wives, sleep, photography.
Eyes are in green sweeps over
diner rain, Tuesdays, and caffeine.
Sagging anemones on counters,
lowered monsoons into nectaries and water.
Hands on mine, neglected matron,
smothered like wings in suds and vinegar.
Fill my body with intense large colors,
give me a moment please.
Wanna gambol in American farmhouse moonlight
till the blood fills in my knees.

Breathe soft words through your teeth
When I sleep
useless like adage and old receipts.

Caribbean clairvoyant in Corona
puffs cigars, pulls Legba’s open arms;
a blight in the season of bonfires,
masks and an ampersand for my queen.
Amber incense and then billed double,
let me retune and reprise.
Haddonfield Halloweens minus the murder,
I hope the baby is a beautiful and blissful sum.

Breathe soft words through your teeth
when i sleep
useless like adage and old receipts.
Blonde court stenographers transcribe rain.

Puppeteers laughing,
segments on t.v.
Sylph cloaked in Christmas lights.
Track Name: Black Fly Season
African herdsmen carry sections of smoldering rope
out to sea.
African herdsmen carry smoldering rope out to sea.

Saw a monarch spread its wings on a junk blue cot,
that a homeless man sprawled on.
His hands were clasped
around a slope of heliotrope,
thrums from air conditioner.
Lemon ricotta ice cream melting in my,
lemon ricotta sun melting in my hands.

We prime the walls,
leave tomorrow.
Spider leg fingers on my chest.
Dia De Los Muertos light switch plate.

Years go on and off.
Track Name: QC [Reprise]
Sunday service girls lean on blue doors
their thighs thick meat.
Milkmaid’s yoke soldered silver skeletons on wood display.
We become our parents, antiques consigned;
our fucking as meaningful as artificially inseminated bulls.

Black girls in blonde wigs sing a flat national anthem
on youtube--
everything seems right with the world;
everything is right tonight.

Another drink and i unfurl.
Start to flex my essex muscle.
Flannel flowers rot.
Giddy pirouettes.