Here I sit amidst my wreckage From the electronic surplus store Wires soldered to my nerves, Tendons fused to circuit boards My heart is bleeding, beating on the table, My soul sewn into the bass Forgive me if my voice is raw, This current's more than my throat can take I sing for my thousand mothers Whose true names I sought to memorize Who seized the electric dream and Taught magnetic tape to harmonize A newborn child I woke And heard their gospel in a daze Angels screaming on the track, "My child, be not afraid" I only write harsh noise, build music out of trash My junk is not your business and my gender is thrash It was a dream to know you, They turned you into a myth When they strip me for my copper, Turn my bones into a synth HIT IT Isn't it grand? Isn't it grand? It feels like the very first time It feels like, it feels like I'm seeing colors again Like I have the breath of life in my veins again Like I'm shedding my skin And there's lightning in my fingers Crackling between my fingers, oh god, oh god OH MY GOD
I feel wet iron burning the stubble from my face Sweet mothers hold me, make me holy, Fill me with your grace This is my body, stronger, stranger, It only takes a second Pass me the spray paint and the solder, Watch me as I wreck it Are those the speakers popping, Or my lungs bursting in my chest? Whether I am ending or beginning, I will put this night to rest If I burn up from the voltage Let my body be the dawn It cannot be sunrise forever, Tomorrow has to come Tomorrow has to come Tomorrow has to come Tomorrow has to come Tomorrow has to come Tomorrow has to come!
Trans women invented synthesizer music and perfected it. As always, the role of priestesses taming invisible spirits in the service of beauty and the spirit falls to us. We were here, and will be here, and forever we will heawr the movements of the invisible. Sing, for your mothers!