Silk Sheet Music.
A crow amongst vultures,
picking apart your skull
to sulk in sound sculptures.
Lets carry vinyl to build a nest
with minds like rotten eggs,
waiting to hatch static
and infest the atmosphere as
hash is blasted out of kegs;
standing on the speaker.
We weave through electricity
together, our bodies become
tethers better equipped for
a drama induced coma from
the crypt; cable is my blanket.
Grip the snug outlets and plug
them into my empty eye sockets.
Our ears are solar panels
that Clear Channel can't
brand with bland signals.
I'm told It's not polite to stereo.
I kissed the speakers between
blushed cheeks and got mono,
so don't use that tone with me.
We play deaf
but death is listening.
College pirates pilot like
Pontius with consciousness
aimed at the sparrows.
I'm whispering mic checks,
asking when did broadcasts
become so narrow?
Radio killed
the literary heart.
(videos were just
cameos used to
chart stardom)
The airwaves goodbye.
Give my disregards to lucifer.
Tell him hell needs more
reverb, and to play our song
in reverse.