The city smells dusty don’t you think?
Smells like oxidation as
The last of our sun’s rays flees upwards
Off the city’s skyline.
It’s that time of twilight,
That red, heavy, nostalgic time
Where you look back on the day
And decide whether what
Have done during it’s course was
To you and your checked lifestyle.
Red turns to pink
Turns to purple
Normally associated with death,
Black in this city means the birth
Of the commercial angels.
Every night neon taking over
Passion taking over from reason -
Yeah you heard that hey?
That deep bass?
Yeah, one of my favourites as well
Names of those angels with sordid wings,
Their neon signs rusting around the
From up here they almost seem to welcome you,
Promising instant, mindless gratification,
Not worried about tommorrow morning, or the
Rest of your life for that matter.
You see there?
I reckon those kids are ’bout to shoot that oke…
No idea hey, probably didn’t pay them for that “E” he
Bought last -
I wonder if he had
“E’s” getting expensive,
Couldn’t have been that bad -off.
Death doesn’t look that bad from up here,
The blood seems to become dimmed in the neon light,
In the shadow of those Neon Gods
Reflection of society here I suppose.
Don’t cry, please?
Blood don’t matter to them angels,
‘Cept if it’s coming from some needle point on your arm,
Or from between some lady’s legs.
Yeah I thought that was a star as well,
But I found out this morning that it’s just that network tower
On that hill outside of town.
Commercial angels of today’s society, what we are ruled by…