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Vultures Eating Vultures

from The Gramp Stamp by Grampfather

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lyrics

Vultures Eating Vultures


He was old and mean
blood dripping from his beak—
whenever I remember him
I can hear him speak.
He says, “Let go. Lie down.
You won’t hear a sound
next time I come around.”

He dug his talons deep
into the deceased
rendering its tendons
undoing his own kind’s seams.
Then the whole pack
dug in their masks
to their brother or their mother
or whoever was fixed for the feast.

“Lie down. Let go.”
Whenever I see him
I swear I see someone I know.

When I die, would you mind
picking up the scraps
off my spine and back?
I’ll have had a body to live through
and now it’s my gift to you
and I’ll course through your heart
a pulse that knows not time.

There is no time—
when your tomb is the womb
and the womb is your food;
you’re imbued through and through
with a lust to renew
with a thirst to consume
the waste of the wasted
and erase death from the face
of the pavement.

I’m just a bloody mess—
take this burden off my chest:
skin and veins, nerves and tissues;
come undone these fibrous sinews
lay to rest these incessant issues
save me from such common misuse.

You’ve got it right—
there’ll be no decay tonight:
the old are dead and the young are fed,
ancestors reunite.

When I die, would you mind
picking up the scraps
off my spineless back?
I’ll have had a body to live through
and now it’s my gift to you.

“Let go. Lie down.”
Someday we’ll meet again
but I won’t know how.

I remember the first time
I saw you rummaging around in my yard—
you were all huddled round the freshly discarded
carcass of a soul just departed
and flown off to who knows where—
you don’t care, just as long as there’s somewhere
to drag it off to and clear it out
and feed those awful, greedy mouths. . .
but in a dream I saw the scene in reverse:
it was obscene how serene you all conversed
like surgeons hovering above your patient
like masked craftsmen so diligent
gently piecing each rib to each knob
beaks, like tweezers, ease in to do the job
finishing the frame of the ship
feeding her meat as if she were your chick
and tucking her in with a nice, warm pelt.
It was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,
thought my heart would melt.

You hoist the mast
now that death is past
and nudge your fledgling
on to set sail
You watch your daughter rise
as you hiss your goodbyes
and cry your mo(u)rning wails
as you prepare for her retreat
for summer is coming
and the sun is setting in the east.





The lyrics of this poem are inspired by/reworked from a poem I wrote a long while ago:

Turkey Vultures

All huddled about the skull
and spine of a squirrel,
gently piecing each rib
to each knob—
their beaks like tweezers,
the masked craftsmen finish
the frame of the ship,
easing their way through
the mouth, feeding her meat
as if she were their chick
and tucking her in
with a nice warm pelt.

When the mast is hoisted
they nudge their fledgling
on to set sail,
hissing goodbyes
as they prepare for their retreat,
for summer is coming
and the sun is setting in the east.

credits

from The Gramp Stamp, released March 25, 2019
Vox, guitar, bass: James Kwapisz
Drums: Brandon Bera

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Grampfather Kingston, New York

Grampfather is an indie-psych rock band based out of Kingston, NY, whose material traverses a variety of rock genres, such as indie, garage, punk, psych, chill, and thrash.

James Kwapisz: vocals, guitar, synth
Tony DiMauro: drums
Andrew Blot: guitar, keys
Jake Offermann: bass

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