small flames lyrics
In order of the track list.

Played by the Numbers
I wrote this song while thinking about what one would have to do go go on the lam in this modern age. One would have to only go to new places, do new things, meet new people, and do nothing that one had ever done before. Total re-invention of the self – would freedom be worth it? A nod to the mad rants of Francis E. Dec, Esquire, OG conspiracy theorist. Little did he know, that metadata is a bitch.

I sit upon a throne, inside a stream
this concrete river overlooks everything
I can’t remember the last time I walked anywhere
or where I was walking to
the numbers are eating so many moments in our lives

Yes we’re played, played by the numbers
Our lives played against the odds
We’re played, played by the numbers
and our only hope is to do something new

The threat of nuclear war might frighten
some of us back into line
I thought that went away with the 80’s – oy.
yet somehow storm troopers are still marching in time
in our name – in lands that we’ve never been, never seen

And they’re played, played by the numbers
They’re lives are played against the odds
They’re played, played by the numbers
and They’re only hope is to do something new

A deluded illusion of my soul haunts humming, empty halls
It’s a vision static, in electricity
I fear it might be used someday by some evil gangster computer god
to steal away all that I hold dear

As we’re played, played by the numbers
Even our souls are played against the odds
We’re played, played by the numbers
and our only hope is to do something new

Yet somehow, still, gardens are growing
Beauty, art, and life still flowing
People we build and invent because
We’ve got something to finish
And that’s the work that G-D started so long ago.

Candlelight
Dedicated to my lovely & talented wife Samantha. The book, bell, and candle are ritual items well known for their symbolism. Standing in front of the home that my grandfather built, and the family sold long ago, I considered that it would never be home for me again. The tree with bark that peeled in the shape of puzzle pieces was cut down. I shall always remember, when I sing this song, the tears that maidens of the girl scout troop shed, poetically aware of the implications of growing into adulthood, and what ‘home’ would mean when childhood ends. This song is sung by my step-daughter, Nrya Song, as I pass the torch of creativity in music to her, the next generation. This is her debut release as a performer.

Once upon a time, at the end of the world
With a book, a bell, a candle burning
and the light reflected in your eyes
Showed me the love for which I was yearning
And there, underneath the planet Mars
We did shine just like the wand’ring stars
Once upon a time, at the end of the world
With a book, a bell, a candle burning

Oo, Candlelight Oo, Candlelight

Once upon a time at the end of the world
I knew I could never return home
for the old folks have passed away into the great beyond
for home a place that is here, then its gone
And here, a fantasy of memory to find
and there, the dream of a life we left behind
Once upon a time at the end of the world
I knew I could never return home

Oo, Candlelight Oo, Candlelight

Once upon a time, at the end of the world
We found a love that would carry on
on into the night and the glow of the morning star
Never thought it could go so far
And there, underneath the planet Mars
We did shine just like the wand’ring stars

Once upon a time, at the end of the world
With a book, a bell, a candle burning
Once upon a time, at the end of the world
With a book, a bell, a candle burning

Oo, Candlelight Oo, Candlelight
Oo, Candlelight Oo, Candlelight

Stoked
I wrote this song after I showed up to work, but my boss did not. Thanks, Mick! Certainly inspired by many nights of losing my mind, with the best intentions, around either a campfire or a conflagration. I have always been inclined toward pyromania, and fortunately, I have found many outlets for this affectation, mostly work-related. Thusly, I have been able to curb the potentially incarcerating hangovers that plague those who lose control. These days, I am inclined towards small flames, having been intimately involved in the production of 15+ years of the most amazingly artistic bonfires in my role as an employee of the Black Rock City Department of Public Works.

It’s a sad, sad day. We’ve come a long way –
there comes a time to lose your mind
Still your heart, and I’ll hold my tongue
and together we might find ourselves down at the finish line

Let’s stoke the fire, tonight we’re getting higher
than we’ve ever been before
Hold on to your heart, of your mind let go
It’s time to stoke the fire down in my soul

If life’s a race, don’t want to run to fast
Just walk on down, try to make it last
and if life’s a game, you got to roll them bones
Draw your hand of cards, and try to build a home
Let’s stoke the fire, tonight we’re getting higher

Higher than we’ve ever been before
Hold on to your heart, of your mind let go
It’s time to stoke the fire down in my soul

Fall to your knees and sigh, & Kiss the world goodbye
Let your hardened heart grow light,
It’s time to give up the fight
Be robbed of your pride, don’t hide it on the inside
Wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t be afraid to believe

Let’s stoke the fire, tonight we’re getting higher
than we’ve ever been before
Hold on to your heart, of your mind let go
It’s time to stoke the fire down in my soul

Ten of Wands
I challenged my mystic comrade that we would both write a song based on the draw of a single tarot card. She drew the Ace of Swords, while I drew Ten of Wands. Wands represent new growth, passion, action, and the element of fire. It shows someone carrying a heavy & encumbering load of ten staves. In the song, we see the poetical progression of symbolism in a traditional folk music motif, counting off the meta-symbolic correlations. That Starry Crown, as a Mormon-raised friend explained to me, is the experience of carrying life’s burden without worry or complaint, imminent joy given through devotion to God.

Oh Lord, I been hurtin’, my back bent low with this burden
I been counting pennies, stacking these staves
With a flow that’s running so low, no savior what saves me
I cried out, oh my soul, when may I lay down this heavy load
Oh, my soul it shouts down, “When you lay down your pride, you may wear

That Starry Crown, yeah yeah
That Starry Crown, yeah yeah

I found one – what is one?
It’s the power of the light & life that’s reflected in the Sun
I found two, three, and four
Four is for the wedding canopy that shows us more is in store
I found five, what is five?
It’s the fighting spirit that will keep you alive
I found six, seven, & eight
eight arrows that point the way to the dream gate

Yeah, yeah… yeah, yeah

Well, I found nine, what is nine?
It’s the night before the fight we may die, that we dine
I found ten, what is ten?
It’s the straw that broke the camel’s back, it will make your mind bend

I cried out, oh my soul, when may I lay down this heavy load?
My soul it shouts down, “When you can lay down your pride, you may wear…

That Starry Crown, yeah yeah
That Starry Crown, yeah yeah
When you gonna lay down your pride, yeah yeah
Mm, Hmmmm, then you may wear That Starry Crown

Silver Halo Blues
Have you ever walked down the street, and noticed that the other people are not really there? Like zombies, their minds exist outside of their bodies, in some digital hell or heaven – purgatory, more likely – their faces bathed in what I think of as the silver halo, a nimbus of blue light emitted by nearby screen.
There are rumors of the existence of “incorruptible artifacts”. I have seen one, the mummified hand of a saint in an orthodox cathedral in Europe. Proof of sainthood, in their enduring nature, the power of the holy spirit prevents decay of the body part into dust. But what about a whole head? A saint, a prophet, the severed head of John the Baptist is believed to exist in over 20 locations in the present day, usually on display at a church In occult circles, more rumors emerge – the head speaks, constantly, in tongues, prophecies of the future. What is the most logical explanation for the existence of this multidimensional severed head? Here we have the case of a victim – of a terrible time machine accident.
Having traveled from the future, one understands the when and how of the moment of one’s
death. In this case, decapitation. One carefully adjusts the quantum bolt to get one out of there just before the nick. But what happens if the quantum agitator malfunctions? One gets out just after the nick… Hence: a head, stuck in time, doomed to repeat the moment just after decapitation, for eternity.
Being a time traveler, it is also possible for this John to be simultaneously existent in theological history at multiple points in the time space continuum. This song theorizes that John of Patmos “John the Revelator”, is also a likely candidate to be on the Time Police most wanted list. What better profession to disguise that you are from the future – than an prophet in ancient times? Perhaps they the SAME? Only time will tell, and she is notoriously close-lipped.

Why don’t you let your silver halo down?
Let that blue light a-flicker, & darkness come around
Why don’t you let your silver halo down?
Of the talking heads, you know John was the first
To transverse time & space, to be so gifted with the glory of God’s grace
Of the talking heads, you know John was the first
Why don’t you let your silver halo down?
Let that blue light a-flicker, & darkness come around
Why don’t you let your silver halo down?

To plunge through the arches of night
And, passing through a portal of glittering starlight,
Throw open the window, never mind the cold,
Walk with the eldest of the old souls

There, threads of unknown origin dance & weave
Now, if you should spy the silver, there amongst the gold
Wonder is what your fortune may hold.
Me, I got midnight blue & other colors impossible to behold
With mortal eyes – save for the wise
But I got that midnight blue, that midnight blue

There, under the arches of that night
Passing through a portal of glittering starlight,
When you throw open the window, never mind the cold,
Let the spell of Morpheus take hold.

Why don’t you let your silver halo down?
Let that blue light a-flicker, & darkness come around
Why don’t you let your silver halo down?

Of the talking heads, you know John was the First
To be caught between the worlds, endlessly alone
Like an angel, far from home –

And as dawn’s light approaches,
Yes, as dawn’s light approaches –
Just remember that them rays
are dignified by the night –
the cosmic immortality of night

And plunging through the arches of night
Passing through a portal of glittering starlight,
Throw open the gates, give a shoutout to all your fates,
The dream gate awaits

Rule of Three
Everything only happens one time. But if it happens twice, it is sure to happen a third time. This is the song that my past self paid my future self $100 to finish writing. It’s one of those things that only happens once, if ever. I was looking through my journals, just on the off chance that there was anything there that might be usable. Lo, and behold! I found nestles within them pages the spitting image of my old pal, Banjo-man Franklin, looking at me like, “Well, sonny?” and thence were the rudimentary lyrics and chords that became the Rule of Three. Don’t say I never did anything for you, sez I to me. Myself, I hope to meet that old pal o’ mine someday once again, the Banjo-man that makes the world go ’round.

They say that lightning never strikes twice
They say that lightning never strikes twice
But if it do, get ready to roll the dice
But they say that lightning never strikes twice

Oh and everything only happens one time
Oh and every little thing only happens one time
But if it does, be ready top pay the fine
‘Cuz somebody gonna call it a crime

Now if you’ve got the mother, the maiden, and the crone
Now if you’ve got the mother, the maiden, and the crone
Yes if you’ve got the mother, the maiden and crone
Be thankful for your happy home

Here’s one for the father, two for the son
Here’s one for the father, two for the son
Three will make the Devil – Run, Devil, Run!
Run Devil, run Devil run…

If you see just one, better look around
If you see just one, better look around
‘Cuz one moment you’re alone, the next you’re six feet underground
If you see just one, better look around

If you think there’s just two, better hold on
If you think there’s just two, better hold on
‘Cuz 3 is a-comin’, and man it won’t be long

If you’ve got 1, you’ve got unity
If you’ve got two, you’ve got polarity
But if you’ve got 3, why don’t you break some off for me?
‘Cuz you know we all just tryin’ to get free

You can trade your wooden nickel for a silver dime,
Trade your soul for a real good time
whether I double the stakes, or whether I tow the line
The rule of three is on my mind

The Reminder Waltz
A post-apocalyptic polka band, playing beyond the “Last Waltz”, well beyond. Sorry Fury Road Cosplayers, but accordion is the official instrument of the apolkalypse now. This is my tribute to the bipolar-ness within us all, and I mean that with the best intention. I feel you on that, my friends. This is the only song I wrote on lap steel, but it transferred well to the accordion. The accordion may be terribly complicated, but the guitar grid is just too much for my squeezebox-based understanding of music. I wrote this song well before the plague hit, but it seems to be strangely prophetic. Isolation and fear are eagerly peddled by media of all stripes, warranted or no, these tools of control largely keep us ‘common folk’ from being able to organize to better our lives. To have hope, remember every day and be thankful for the light, the life, the unconditional love of The Sun. Death walks with us also every day, and when we become friends with Death – that is when we truly start to live. To be thankful for what we have,in the face of relentless fear-based programming. Let’s do it. Relentless creativity, will, & limitless imagination will be the foundations of our new world – a world with compassion and dignity for all, once we break the shackles of control.

History now has forever ended
Will the suffering of the past ever be mended?
Epitaph on the tombstone of humanity

From themselves, how they yearned to be free
Oh lord, let that sun keep on shining
shining down on you and on me
Oh lord, let that sun keep on shining
reminding us of what its like to be free… to be free

We lay here, in the darkness
of manufactured melancholy
we are taught to bend and to worship
just about any form of authority

Oh lord, let that sun keep on shining
shining down on you and on me
Oh lord, let that sun keep on shining
reminding us of what its like to be free… to be free

Let us bring forth the light
into the darkness of our lives
Let’s run through the graveyard at midnight
Free the dead inside your head
and rise, RISE, RISE – from your grave!

Float
The lyrics for this song were notes that I took, in the form of poetry, while attending a lecture on the mystic teaching of the Baal Shem Tov. The music I wrote under the biggest sky I have ever existed under: out in the Black Rock Desert, camping with friends and comrades of the BRC DPW survey crew.  We awake with the dawn to draw lines in the dust that become the streets of Black Rock City, home of the Burning Man event.
I had the honor to play Float for a dear friend in the hospital, who died shortly thereafter. Also for a friend that had just lost her mother. We were in the garden, as the wind came up, thunder resounding with the impact of G-D’s ever-presence. I shall always remember these moments of beauty and caring, which my muse has brought me and my friends to. I hope this song can help you to decide float, when it is so easy to sink beneath the waves in this life.

You risked your soul way up on the mountain
When you raised your voice to your Lord
and drank deep from Wisdom’s Holy Fountain

The greatest gift, they say, is a sense of wonder
It’s a choice that I make every day –
will we float or go under?
You and I are more alike than we can scarcely believe
the Divine & the Shrike,
through & though
we can conceive

If I could only learn to live each moment, one by one,
I might learn to forgive, to be here under this sun
to forgive this mortal stain, to live in Your eternal Amen….
The greatest gift, they say, is a sense of wonder

It’s a choice that you make every day –
will we float or go under?
You and I are more alike than we can scarcely believe
the Divine & the Shrike,
through & though
we can conceive

You are made Holy because of me
and I am made Holy because of You.
You kick me when I’m deep
You whisper while I’m asleep

hmm… aaah, Your secret Name
hmm… the rules of your Heavenly game
which no one may speak, which no one may know
and through which, the breath of life flow….

The greatest gift, they say, is a sense of wonder
It’s a choice that we make every day
will we float or go under?
You and I are more alike than we can scarcely believe
the Divine & the Shrike,
through & though
we can conceive

Mystic Balloon Quest
An original composition, which Samantha named upon hearing the tune for the first time.
I now challenge your imagination! Listen to the tune while imagining your own, personal, mystic balloon quest. Let your mind wander, blown by the musical gusts of ebb and flow, a wheezing waltz of accordion & harmonica, the dance of fiddle & flute, rumble of the BAT (Big Ass Tuba, a technical term). Is your balloon quest buoyed by dirigible? Hot air balloon? A rainbow bunch of helium floaters handed to you by a robotic clown? Each person’s mystic balloon quest is different, unique, and may reveal through your connection to imagination and intuition, valuable insight.
If you would like to share your mystic balloon quest, please write me at:
dylanblackthornmusic (at) gmail.
I would love to read about your unique adventure! Please specify whether I may share your story or, if you prefer it be kept private, when you write to me. I will share it on my weblog posts, with your permission.
For my musically-inclined friends, sheet music is available by request at the above email address. Please specify which key you prefer to read in, and I will send you a properly transposed lead sheet.

Folk Magick
A true story about a haunted paper-mache devil, the greasiest dollar bill in the world (which I kept in my hat for many years), and the little rituals working-class families practice to give us an edge in this hard-scrambled world. I have often viewed our collection of broken cuckoo clocks as a kind of metaphysical battery, but have yet to test this theory due to the Money Devil’s interventions into my experiments. What is the difference between culture and madness, ritual and obsessive action? Intention often is that psychological fulcrum from which understanding yields meaning, especially in the practice of magick. You may call me superstitious, but I prefer SUPERstitious, thank you very much.

Mr. Money Devil has a lucky penny
and a dollar folded into a bow
He’s red and green and yellow
yella through and through
and he’ll get a dollar, yes he’ll get a dollar out of you

And he skulks around my porch, and on the street corner
with a leering grin – A grin that will scorch the conscience
of a soul drenched in sin – he’s inviting more money in

The penny was attached to a knife
That forged by a father for his son
And this made it luckier than most lucky pennies out there
For it bore the gift of a generation

The penny it was thought could amplify its luck
By hiding it inside a cuckoo clock
But Mr. Money Devil got a hold of it first
And now he’s even harder, harder to stop

And he skulks around my porch, and on the street-corner, with a leering grin –
A grin that will scorch the conscience of a soul
Drenched in sin – he’s inviting more money in

His bow tie was a dollar that was kept inside a hat
For many of the greasy years
the dollar was left lying as a gift
and on it was wish’t
It was wished upon 18 times – with 18 different rhymes –
and all of them little wishes came to be true

Mr. Money Devil has a lucky penny
and a dollar folded into a bow
He’s red and green and yellow
yella through and through
and he’ll get a dollar, yes he’ll get a dollar out of you

Bessarabian Traffic Jam
Back on the old world, before the world moved on, we musicians had these things called gigs. They were wonderful! We would show up somewhere, get paid to play music and even receive gifts of cash, pizza, and beer. It was on one of those occasions that I wrote the tune Bessarabian Traffic Jam. There was a traffic jam on Hwy 290 in the Texas hill country. I was on my way to play with Mazel Tov Kocktail Hour, and had Klezmer on my mind. We were tuck for a long time while the accident was getting sorted out, so I picked up my melodica and came up with this tune.  For my musically-inclined friends, sheet music is also available by request at the above email address. Please specify which key you prefer to read in, and I will send you a properly transposed lead sheet.

Gray Memories
By Dylan M. Blackthorn, with inspiration from Sean & Angelique Lee. When I first conceived of this song, I was working a collective bakery in Berkeley, Ca. We would occasionally have little parties at the bakery at night, with acoustic music and cherry & apricot wine that I made from the leftover juice from 5 gallon fruit jars. Sean Lee & I were fast friends in those days, riffing off of each others’ songwriting and performance styles to create what would become the definitive sound of thee Hobo Gobbelins. This song was inspired by that creative process, both with Sean and Angelique.
I remember the day I presented this song to my dear friend Angelique, I was working the front of the bakery, she in the back, her tattered black lace showing from behind a flour-covered black apron, like a Gothic Mary Poppins. I asked her if she would listen to my new song, and tell me what she thought the song was about. We sat down at the bakery piano there, and after I presented her the music, she described a vision she had, which became the second verse for the song many years later. After her death, blessed be her memory, this scene came back to me, and I wrote the 2nd verse for her.
Welcome, King, Queens, & In-betweens! Now, presented for the first time in it’s ultimate form, the ancient tale of the Spider & the Fly! The old story comes ’round again.

She’s dancing through the cobwebs in the house where she’s lived –
the past 20 years of this widow’s memory
they’re brushed aside with a soft pirouette
a new life’s beginning, but it hasn’t started yet

These are the stories of Gray Memories
Some to remember, others we’ll forget
the ocean wave are crashing, and in their song, you hear,
‘How could you… forget?”

There’s an old man at sea, casting his nets
a-drift in a ship fashioned by his own hands
He wanders searching, drifting alone
For his love has gone to that far distant land

These are the stories of Gray Memories
Some we’ll remember, others drift away…
The ocean wave are crashing, and in their song,
You hear, ‘How could you… forget?”

About this time, the Spider said to the Fly, “Well, deary, I was just wondering, I was just curious… do you think… do you just think… Will you try to remember, or let yourself forget?”To which the fly replied, in a rather flustered state, “Bzz ah! Bzz ah! I will always remember you!”
“In that case…”

There’s a shadow that’s cast in the corner of your mind
Where Queen Anansi sits, spinning your tale
She’s weaving lace out of out Goddess spider-silk
and these are the garments your ghostly form shall wear

These are the stories of Gray Memories
Some to remember, others, will to forget…
the ocean wave are crashing, and in their song,
you hear, ‘How could you… forget?”

Right about now, the ghost of the Fly was drifting up from his earthly remains, and all of this the Spider saw with her 3rd eye. She inquired once again, “Wait, hold on there dearie, before you float away on some breeze from an unknown realm… please, do tell! Did you try to remember? Or did you let yourself forget?”

To which the Fly replied, “Bzz… zazas zazas zazas bzz zazas natas natas zazas zazas… bzz to forget what? To forget… what? To forget…”

STARRY SECRETS
This song came to me as I was traveling with a group of mystic philosopher artists and musicians from Oakland, California to Anchorage, Alaska. Although we resembled a school bus full of hippies at first glance, we were of a considerably more occult mindset. We traveled through the Yukon, visiting hot springs, making friends along the way, and I was working an acoustic black metal shadow puppet show entitled the Saga of the Burning Face Ork Tribe, with a little help from my wyrd friends. Upon arriving in Alaska during the height of Summer, it became apparent that the Sun would never truly set. The stars would keep their secrets, for a time, as lingering twilight drew on for hours, until the tail-end of the sunset became the dawn. Our ultimate adventure happened at Boot’s Bison Ranch, MutantFestAK, a sparsely attended experimental music festival on the fringes of true Alaskan wilderness near Trapper Creek, Alaska. I would return to that same spot years later, performing as part of the Trapper Creek Bluegrass Festival – a bluegrass festival where yes, there are banjos, fiddles, guitars, mandolins, even upright bases – but no bluegrass music to be seen or heard! I highly recommend it, and accordions are welcome.

The stars are keeping their secrets tonight
Veiled by gray clouds, the laughing goddess spins
The cosmic loom (womb) weaves (leaves) the roots of the tree ov life
Through this darkness shines an unseen light

WE TRACE THE SIGN WE TRACE THE SIGN
WITH THE BLOOD AND THEN THE WINE
AWAIT WITH SHINING KNIVES, THE KILLING OV TIME

Gird your heart, within serpent’s body coil’d
Black dragon scales blooded & oil’d
Our smile a mask in a foreign land
Release flows from the broken hand

WE TRACE THE SIGN WE TRACE THE SIGN
WITH THE BLOOD AND THEN THE WINE
AWAIT WITH SHINING KNIVES, THE KILLING OV TIME

The stars are weeping, we are weeping tonight
Veiled by gray clouds, the laughing god cries out
Peals of mirth that haunt this place from the depths inside
Pointed daggers drawn towards the infinite

WE TRACE THE SIGN, WE TRACE THE SIGN,
WITH THE BLOOD AND THE WINE
AWAIT WITH SHINING LIVES
THE KILLING OV TIME