Thirty-Nine and the Peacocks

Lyrics

[Verse 1]
Your pen moves like a peacock's strut through Georgia clay,
grotesque and gorgeous, feathered violence on the page.
You write the damaged into rooms where they belong—
the one-eyed prophets, the con men with their teeth.
Your synapses fire sideways; the brain doesn't know
which way the mercy enters when the shotgun speaks.

[Chorus]
You carve the grotesque into cathedrals.
Your words are the shock the system needs—
synaptic plasticity rewiring what we thought we saw.
You make the broken beautiful.
You make us see.

[Verse 2]
The theta waves of vision spiral through your fever nights,
your hands remapping sense like cortical territory shifts.
You knew the body's wisdom: myelination speeds the thought
that needs no softening, no apology, no Sunday hat.
Each paragraph builds axonal branches reaching
toward the grace that only violence can announce.

[Chorus]
You carve the grotesque into cathedrals.
Your words are the shock the system needs—
synaptic plasticity rewiring what we thought we saw.
You make the broken beautiful.
You make us see.

[Bridge]
Your interoception tuned to what the South was hiding—
the self becoming instrument, the body's own prophetess.
Long-term potentiation: each story etches deeper grooves,
and we come back, we keep coming back
to the peacock strutting through your sentences,
to the eye that sees the monster and the saint as one.

[Chorus]
You carve the grotesque into cathedrals.
Your words are the shock the system needs—
synaptic plasticity rewiring what we thought we saw.
You make the broken beautiful.
You make us see.

[Outro]
The peacock spreads its violence across the page,
each feather a small scar, each scar a wing,
and the reader stands there, finally, finally awake.