Clyde's Reflection
03-29-2008, 04:16 PM
Yo, I don't mean to bore you guys, but now and then I do a spot of writing. I wouldn't normally post the resultant badger turds I seem to come up with online, but this one one me 300 Euro in a competition, so I thought it might be worth something.
Angel Song
Enter the shaft of icy corruption,
Singing like an angel song.
Dancing on the mangled metal of the twilit junction,
Guise of the antique Archon,
Conducting the horde in misery’s addiction,
Laughing, united thence in pain as they are told they belong.
Microphones bow in static inundation,
And wordlessly parrot, declaring what’s right and what’s wrong.
Dancing, now, the shadow strung puppets, faces painted, uniform,
And singing like an angel song.
The path to utopia is the arrogant assumption,
Seen only through kaleidoscopes and preached by the frost-bitten tongue.
A masquerade of toxic seduction
Where we dance and know it won’t be long
Before the execution of meaningless function,
When there will be the sounding of the funeral gong,
The orchestra playing a ballad to sweet self-destruction.
Now preying as vultures, each on their own vices, carrion, the ripping talon,
With guilt-deprived amnesiacs screaming absolution,
And singing like an angel song.
Enter, stage left, the King Jester with horrifying motion,
Enveloping all within a smile and a grin, carried along,
Deaf to history, the soothsayer’s caution.
Conducting the meek with the arms of the strong,
Ministering the mind-numbing in place of elation,
Are ill-habits and pretense, leading the scapegoat to be hung.
Playing paranoia on a fairy flute, welcome are all to the subtle possession.
Parading about is the joyous throng
Bellowing their ode to all aberration,
And singing like an angel song.
Angel Song
Enter the shaft of icy corruption,
Singing like an angel song.
Dancing on the mangled metal of the twilit junction,
Guise of the antique Archon,
Conducting the horde in misery’s addiction,
Laughing, united thence in pain as they are told they belong.
Microphones bow in static inundation,
And wordlessly parrot, declaring what’s right and what’s wrong.
Dancing, now, the shadow strung puppets, faces painted, uniform,
And singing like an angel song.
The path to utopia is the arrogant assumption,
Seen only through kaleidoscopes and preached by the frost-bitten tongue.
A masquerade of toxic seduction
Where we dance and know it won’t be long
Before the execution of meaningless function,
When there will be the sounding of the funeral gong,
The orchestra playing a ballad to sweet self-destruction.
Now preying as vultures, each on their own vices, carrion, the ripping talon,
With guilt-deprived amnesiacs screaming absolution,
And singing like an angel song.
Enter, stage left, the King Jester with horrifying motion,
Enveloping all within a smile and a grin, carried along,
Deaf to history, the soothsayer’s caution.
Conducting the meek with the arms of the strong,
Ministering the mind-numbing in place of elation,
Are ill-habits and pretense, leading the scapegoat to be hung.
Playing paranoia on a fairy flute, welcome are all to the subtle possession.
Parading about is the joyous throng
Bellowing their ode to all aberration,
And singing like an angel song.