The streets sweat a humorless sanity
The starving pavement fiends for traffic
These bleak rooftops are a nightmare
The basements moan a wild sound
The wine has muddied my thoughts
The cigarette smoke has filled my lungs
I can no longer speak.
The innocent are chained to machinery
Intoxicating them with rampant conformity
The men with unshaven beards are criminals
It is social suicide.
The wailing sirens come to take them into oblivion
I find it obscene but the madman delights
Such is the rhythm of the unfiltered mind
It can imagine utopias we cannot fathom.
I scribbled rants of my dreams on the wall
My manuscript of illusions
And I too face annihilation.
Subway stations are confessional
I have abandoned many secrets there
My documents of space and time
They weep a gentle prayer for salvation
For that amnesic wayward child.
The boys and girls are shaking
From the hypnotism of the jukeboxes
The elders shriek somber warnings
Turn off the starry night.
Reality is the opiate of hope
The sordid thorn in the rose garden
I hope it finds no comfort lounged in my skin
For I have long been immune to its venom.
No comments:
Post a Comment