Her Voice of Dirt

by Saint Francis Picabia

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A meditation on the liminal space between death and rebirth.


released May 25, 2016

Recording, performing, speaking, writing, composing, mixing - Dmitri Bailey



all rights reserved


Bog Rot Columbus, Ohio

fka Saint Francis Picabia // Margot Plague is a more contemplative project focusing on meditative composition and performance.

All artwork is original.

For more info, visit or contact me at margot-plum(dot)tumblr(dot)com
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Track Name: Her Voice of Dirt
I see the delicate tendons of any animal, she says
Trodding, hooves cloven through soil woven deep
And ancient, she says—she speaks
Through the old lace of death, through a mouthful of dirt
Teeth sunken into the warm groin of the earth
And hush—the wind speaks, it beckons—she
Beckons you come forth, hold yourself in a womb of soil
The warm walls breathe and know you deeply, wholly,
Completely, yet you do not speak, only breathe
Slowly through a mouthful of dirt, as the wind
Blows slow through your hair, as through pines,
As through pine trees one thousand years ago, collecting

You sit, mouth open, mud spilling over moist lips, it fills
Your throat, you do not cough, you breathe—slow,
Steady, as the damp earth around you swells in forgiveness
For you are an object, immobile in the tangled weeds as
The ancient tendons shift beneath, you are THE OBJECT
Completely, though you do not speak of the old lace of death
Or the tangled weeds in backyards humming through still water

Someone waits far beyond the treeline—palm of hand encompasses
The World, a beating heart disembodied, a precious stone unearthed
Well-known between fingertips moving slowly through your hair, as
Through pines, as through still water, the cloven hooves of any animal
Splashing through puddles in backyards slow, hold yourself, she says,
Deeply, wholly, completely.