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by Alexander Dove

  • Digital Album
    Streaming + Download

    Immediate download of 10-track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire. Comes with PDF booklet containing lyrics, artwork, and information.
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Richard Brown (free) 03:38
Dear Mr. Richard Brown, bright star of all the Senate, this letter makes me frown, and I feel pained to pen it; I know you're sweet of tongue, damn smart, and even richer, but that girl? Oh, too young! I had to take a picture. Senator Richard Brown, you bouncy little bunny! I'll spread it over town if I don't see some money. The press will find it funny how tight she held that whip— and your pubescent honey won't get her scholarship. It isn't just one shot; I have at least a dozen. I like your girls a lot, especially your cousin. In one, the first I'll show, your head looks like a pumpkin. Shouldn't the voters know how you enjoy a rendez-vous? Senator Richard Brown, fire whoever disguised you! You look good in a gown, but still, I recognized you. I see they circumcized you? Should have lopped off the rest! One million is the prize due; next Thursday would be best. Dear young constituent, I see you'd like to burn me, but your malign intent frankly does not concern me. Yeah, you dug up some dung; it won't be my undoing. Who'll notice this among ten bigger scandals brewing? Senator Richard Brown won't lightly kick the bucket, and he will not go down. However hard you chuck it, Dick Brown can prob'ly duck it. Come on: I run this town, so make like corn and shuck it, sincerely, Richard Brown, your senator.
Margrethe 02:18
Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep. Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here. No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine. Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.
Villanelle 02:59
When you lay your brown eyes on me, whatever makes them shine so bright, that's what I'd give an eye to see. How can you glance with so much glee upon a face so wan and white when you lay your brown eyes on me? If I could glimpse what seems to be my own face through an angel's sight, that's what I'd give an eye to see. There is a burst of poetry that flares out with transcendent light when you lay your brown eyes on me, and that bright beacon sets me free to glimpse a garden of delight; that's what I'd give an eye to see. It lets me glide so easily on wings of gladness through the night. When you lay your brown eyes on me, that's what I'd give an eye to see.
It was a night as dark as hell when I saw the girl I knew so well in the arms of a man with skin pale white in a streetlamp’s pool of icy light. She took a drag of sweetest clove and pressed her lips in a fit of love to the mouth of that human heap of trash— on the wind I caught a whiff of ash. Oh, my sweet Danielle. . . oh, my sweet Danielle. . . I will proudly go to hell, only for my sweet Danielle. As I walked back to my empty house I saw a cat who’d caught a mouse. He gave it some false hope to flee, but then devoured it gleefully. I walked into my entrance hall and punched a hole out of my wall— I found my broken down machine and poured a glass of gasoline. Oh, my sweet Danielle. . . Oh, my sweet Danielle. . . I will proudly go to hell, only for my sweet Danielle. I found him by a red, red door I’d entered many times before, and there in that familiar place I poured my cup on his pale, pale face. I smashed the glass on his wretched head and beat him till my knuckles bled. I breathed in slowly, lit a match, lit up, and settled down to watch.
Come With Me 04:49
Come with me now through the walkways of sunset; dance through the darkening dreams of the night; walk where I wander, where all is tinged blood-red; walk the white line where the shadows are light, safe at my side through the sunset and shadow, I care not where, but come with me, come with me, come with me Come with me now on the chariots of moonrise, silver on black let us ride through the cloud; ride through the realm where the Sun is unheard of— let night be your veil, not your burial shroud. Safe at my side through the moonrise and mourning, I care not where, but come with me, come with me, come with me. Come with me now through the valley of darkness; enter that Vale and I’ll guide through its shade. Walk through a world where your soul sings in silence, by many, perhaps, but by me not betrayed. Safe at my side through the deepest of darkness, I care not where, but come with me, come with me, come with me. Come with me now to the beacon of sunrise; sing for the soft-shining shimmer of dew; rest on the road where the Sun beams so brightly, igniting all blood; let it burn into you. Safe at my side through the music of morning, I care not where, but come with me, come with me, come with me.
Watching the sun sink incarnadine slowly, smelling the rush of mortality calling, hearing the talk of the weak and unholy, is it a shock that I find you appalling? The daylight gives way to the dark and the rain and the play of my passion is acted again. Floating with a lazy motion as the bee the flower sips, with an air of fierce devotion I suck venom from your lips; silent as the heart of ocean down your virgin skin it drips. Now is the night, when the shadows around me shroud me and arm me to harm me at leisure, give me a sword of the darkness that bound me, starve me to strengthen my hate of your pleasure. I seek out the jubilant rush of your vein just to suck out your pleasure and turn it to pain. Floating with a lazy motion as the bee the flower sips, with an air of fierce devotion I suck venom from your lips; potent as a witch’s potion, down your virgin skin it drips. I am burning with more yearning than your still-whole heart can feel— those that curse me still coerce me not to taste the joy I steal. I am taunted, yes, and haunted by an unforgotten life— those that wake me now remake me into the anointed knife. I am raging; no assuaging rain can touch my desert skin— evermore I live the story of an unforgiven sin. I am harmed with hate and armed with hollow swords that swallow light, deeper shadow of a shadow sickly swooping through the night.
The Sailor 03:40
The sky is growing red beyond the pier, and with the sunrise I must board and sail away from here, no matter how my heart should sting and burn. But wait, my dear; within a year, I swear I will return. Though I must walk through peril where many men have perished upon the savage ocean, I promise to return to you. The foreign lands will try to snare my eye, but I will keep my thoughts on you no matter how they try. I'll sleep alone upon a barren bed, though succubi may sing and sigh from lips and tongues of red. As I am not a lecher, as I am not a bastard, as I am not a treacher, I promise to return to you. My heart is false; my word is true. And though the waves may rise and swallow me, as no one in creation can escape mortality, I swear upon my soul, I swear it true, across the sea's infinity my ghost will float to you. Though I am not immortal, though I am not a god, though waters claim my body I promise to drift back to you, though mists of death obscure my view. I promise to return to you. I promise to return to you.


released September 18, 2010

Alexander Dove - music, lyrics (except track 3), lead vocals, guitars, sampling, stylophone
Hana Zegeye - lead vocals on track 1, backing vocals on tracks 3 and 10
Lyrics to track 3 are by Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837 - 1909)
Album art by Iain Dove Lempke


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Alexander Dove Chicago, Illinois

Alexander Dove is a songwriter, poet, and composer, who also plays in the traditional Celtic folk group Dòrain. Alexander Dove is used for more-or-less solo or self-directed work, regardless of genre. Published writings are under the name Alexander Dove Lempke. ... more

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