Thursday, February 07, 2008

Angel Pyre

My sweetest of whores. How are you ?

Me ? I’m all right. A lot has happened over the last few months though. Come a little closer so I can whisper in your ear. There.

Somewhere along that intro I forgot what I wanted to write about. I like bongs. Those that are made of glass and filled with water, incase of any confusion.

Totally forgot. Just totally fucking blank. Fuck! I don’t want to talk about the movies and books and music I saw, read and heard. I don’t want to talk politics or the state of the nation or even cricket. Where have all my deep thoughts gone ?
Where ?

The smoke goes up from the green city
To choke angels on the product of progress
The city thrives in a neon blitz
The city feeds on currency and myth

Liberty the whore, she was pushed off the fence
Bastard twins, technology; expedience
She lies raped, broken, cast aside
Her own fault, she refused to hide.
Father wisdom banished from our land
Young tolerance has removed his hand
The city cries, how everybody lied
We embrace chaos we hate with pride

Purple night sky starless and dark
Like hell looking down, waiting to collect
Apathy is a gift that few accept
Though she sits forever, legs spread
This city lives on the acrid fumes of greed
Delirium and despair ever ready to feed
A city of people who do not know
That they too are lost in the flow

Hope is a girl child locked away
Naked and alone she has no say
She’s let out at the whims and fancies
Of the starched, white elite
A city fucked, under siege from the inside
Like parasites we feed, nowhere to hide
The city chokes on it’s own excess
It died a while ago, I must confess

The smoke goes up from the dead city
To choke angels on the product of progress
The city thrived in a neon blitz
The city died became myth

1 comment:

Dr. Flycatcher said...

Awemsome. Like Neil Gaiman meets Warren Ellis meets Sleep.