Let's scream dreams to flat screens and claim the
thirsty theatrical world, reeling in the aftershock of the
thousand songs it's heard.
Plastic screens cast faces in empty shades of pale and the people
fight for pieces because no one wants to fail. Let's paint pictures in the
oil-scraping sun and let's scream dreams at the
unresponsive million, begging for that single drop of
recognition, let's cry superstition at any apparition of the
unattainable, the half-suspicion, the terrible attrition, the unsustainable –
we live corrugated cardboard, hollow empty boxes,
banging on the locked doors, writing love songs for the
unsung, because we're always young, erudite and
tied tongued. Let's scream dreams to empty halls,
torn books and torn walls, let's write songs for rainy skies and
never-knowing-why and long-ago-goodbyes. A love poem
to the missing, a love poem without kissing, a lonely little mystery,
a torn scrap of history.
Let's scream dreams at the masquerade, no more charades,
no more charades. Let's build duets and clarinets and skyscrapers and
new cassettes. Let's scream love songs that they'll forget.