To be common place would be unique,
|
but we're so obscure we're incoherent,
|
like toungeless vigilantes choking
|
just to make you choke. Rattling, rattling.
|
No nails to hold ideas in place,
|
no expression on your face.
|
|
Music and her patrons are dead and
|
irrelevant, like osteoporosis, she is
|
brittle. She is broken.
|
|
Static comes through synthesizers, megaphones
|
and drum machines.
|
Beauty sounds like smashed guitars, and several
|
references to feedback. Rattling, rattling.
|
No surgery to save your life.
|
No promise that everything's all right.
|
|
Music and her patrons are dead and
|
irrelevant, like osteoporosis, she is
|
brittle. She is broken.
|
|
Languages must be organic,
|
because like flies they fall and die.
|
Music now sleeps.
|
Languages must be organic,
|
because like flies they fall and die.
|
Music now sleeps,
|
with Latin and Aramaic.
|
It's over, it's over.
|
No more waiting for something to live for.
|
It's over, it's over.
|
Everything is dying and we want something more.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Bell Jar
|
| Showbread |
