This Pretty How Town
© Surazeus
2018 07 24
The secrets of this bland town are concealed
by plastic wrappers in neat packages
sold in the grocery store where people shop
for branded fantasies of desperate hope.
The boy with wood guitar and microphone,
singing in the garage of memories
with three high-school buddies, rebels against
your strict authority of normal rules.
Everyone lives in this pretty how town
where no one knows the name of the blind clown
who sings on stage in the old smoky bar
about following your own nameless star.
Their faces are concealed by shining glass
as every person drives their car more fast
to earn the paycheck that will pay the bills
and vote for the puppet of the oil king.
The angel who protects me with her wings
is nothing more than ghost of memory
my mind designs based on the girl I loved
who died when we were children in grade school.
Anxious to transcend the common mindset,
I claw my way out of the clear cocoon
of ancient social rules that define duty
for performing rituals that sustain life.
If I perform this action every day
I will sustain the process of my growth
in steady spiral of internal change
to morph into the hero of the hour.
The tension of these concepts coils tight spring
wound deep into the machine of my heart
so I conceal fraught angst in plastic verse
that contains energy of pulsing love.
Through the infinite possibilities
of reorganized words, that puzzle truth
from shadow of deception, I soar high
above the walls of paradise with you.
Together we climb the stairway to Heaven
where we can buy salvation from the priest
who claims he built the pyramid of eyes
so he can sell us access to the skies.
So here I walk the city streets alone,
moving nowhere with crowds of hungry strangers
who sell each other plastic apple pies
then sing our national anthem of the bomb.
I buy his prophecies on golden disk
that conjures visions from the music player
with voodoo voice of electric desire
when I kiss the sky in the purple haze.
Ten thousand singers strumming wood guitars
follow Orpheus from the cave of death
to sing before the wildly dancing crowds
who cheer in ecstasy of flashing dreams.
What aching sorrow of the night-owl hoot
wakes ancient memories our ancestors lived
to guide our wandering way in labyrinth
that leads us ever back into ourselves?
© Surazeus
2018 07 24
The secrets of this bland town are concealed
by plastic wrappers in neat packages
sold in the grocery store where people shop
for branded fantasies of desperate hope.
The boy with wood guitar and microphone,
singing in the garage of memories
with three high-school buddies, rebels against
your strict authority of normal rules.
Everyone lives in this pretty how town
where no one knows the name of the blind clown
who sings on stage in the old smoky bar
about following your own nameless star.
Their faces are concealed by shining glass
as every person drives their car more fast
to earn the paycheck that will pay the bills
and vote for the puppet of the oil king.
The angel who protects me with her wings
is nothing more than ghost of memory
my mind designs based on the girl I loved
who died when we were children in grade school.
Anxious to transcend the common mindset,
I claw my way out of the clear cocoon
of ancient social rules that define duty
for performing rituals that sustain life.
If I perform this action every day
I will sustain the process of my growth
in steady spiral of internal change
to morph into the hero of the hour.
The tension of these concepts coils tight spring
wound deep into the machine of my heart
so I conceal fraught angst in plastic verse
that contains energy of pulsing love.
Through the infinite possibilities
of reorganized words, that puzzle truth
from shadow of deception, I soar high
above the walls of paradise with you.
Together we climb the stairway to Heaven
where we can buy salvation from the priest
who claims he built the pyramid of eyes
so he can sell us access to the skies.
So here I walk the city streets alone,
moving nowhere with crowds of hungry strangers
who sell each other plastic apple pies
then sing our national anthem of the bomb.
I buy his prophecies on golden disk
that conjures visions from the music player
with voodoo voice of electric desire
when I kiss the sky in the purple haze.
Ten thousand singers strumming wood guitars
follow Orpheus from the cave of death
to sing before the wildly dancing crowds
who cheer in ecstasy of flashing dreams.
What aching sorrow of the night-owl hoot
wakes ancient memories our ancestors lived
to guide our wandering way in labyrinth
that leads us ever back into ourselves?
No comments:
Post a Comment