AFTERTASTE

[Chorus: rough melodic hook; held vowels, gritty guitar stabs and deep bass, one close harmony]
AFTERTASTE.
I PUT THE SPOON AWAY.
WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH
HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY.
MY MOUTH, MY HOURS.
THE MORNING IS MINE.
I HEAR ANOTHER TABLE
IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME."

[Verse 2: unhurried rhythmic delivery; the same low-slung pocket, short guitar delays answer the gaps]
Clean plate club. Force fed the rule.
My mother would smile. I could smile on cue.
Last night was different. I wanted the smoke,
The salt on the butter, the bite in the joke.
Benign taste. Still hungry. I went back for more.
This morning the sweet thing I reached for before
Sits cold by my elbow. The bitter tastes bright.
You ask, "Since when?" I say, "Maybe last night."

[Chorus: same rough melodic hook; bass stays mobile beneath the gritty guitar accents]
AFTERTASTE.
I PUT THE SPOON AWAY.
WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH
HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY.
MY MOUTH, MY HOURS.
THE MORNING IS MINE.
I HEAR ANOTHER TABLE
IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME."

[Bridge: close rhythmic voice over bass and dry drums; sparse offbeat guitar echoes]
There's a note on the fridge in the shape of a fight:
"You always..." pressed hard enough into the white.
I rub out always. I write sometimes.
You run your thumb where the old word was.
Pull one word. The paper thins.
The web still holds where the light gets in.

[Final chorus: rough melodic lead and one close answering voice; fuller guitar weight, same grounded pocket]
AFTERTASTE.
I PUT THE SPOON AWAY.
WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH
HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY.
MY MOUTH, MY HOURS.
THE MORNING IS MINE.
YOU HEAR ANOTHER TABLE
IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME."

[Outro: low half-sung voice; bass groove continues, dry stop after the last word]
You try the bitter. I reach for the sweet.
The cupboard stands open.
We eat.

2360/7500

[Verse 1: clipped, conversational near-rap; dirty bass and dry drums, short offbeat guitar accents] Blue in the kitchen. The kettle clicks. Last night's pepper still warm on my lips. You turn your cup till the crack faces me. "Your usual?" comes out before "How'd you sleep?" You said, "Come empty-handed." I brought only me. A second mouth opens before I can think. My mother's voice in the bend of the phrase. Her quick little smile settling onto my face. You say, "I hadn't decided." I leave the cupboard halfway wide. [Chorus: rough melodic hook; held vowels, gritty guitar stabs and deep bass, one close harmony] AFTERTASTE. I PUT THE SPOON AWAY. WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY. MY MOUTH, MY HOURS. THE MORNING IS MINE. I HEAR ANOTHER TABLE IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME." [Verse 2: unhurried rhythmic delivery; the same low-slung pocket, short guitar delays answer the gaps] Clean plate club. Force fed the rule. My mother would smile. I could smile on cue. Last night was different. I wanted the smoke, The salt on the butter, the bite in the joke. Benign taste. Still hungry. I went back for more. This morning the sweet thing I reached for before Sits cold by my elbow. The bitter tastes bright. You ask, "Since when?" I say, "Maybe last night." [Chorus: same rough melodic hook; bass stays mobile beneath the gritty guitar accents] AFTERTASTE. I PUT THE SPOON AWAY. WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY. MY MOUTH, MY HOURS. THE MORNING IS MINE. I HEAR ANOTHER TABLE IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME." [Bridge: close rhythmic voice over bass and dry drums; sparse offbeat guitar echoes] There's a note on the fridge in the shape of a fight: "You always..." pressed hard enough into the white. I rub out always. I write sometimes. You run your thumb where the old word was. Pull one word. The paper thins. The web still holds where the light gets in. [Final chorus: rough melodic lead and one close answering voice; fuller guitar weight, same grounded pocket] AFTERTASTE. I PUT THE SPOON AWAY. WHAT I TOOK INTO MY MOUTH HAS SOMETHING LEFT TO SAY. MY MOUTH, MY HOURS. THE MORNING IS MINE. YOU HEAR ANOTHER TABLE IN THE WAY I SAY, "TAKE YOUR TIME." [Outro: low half-sung voice; bass groove continues, dry stop after the last word] You try the bitter. I reach for the sweet. The cupboard stands open. We eat.

0/500