Song of the Day
By Patrick Mulvihill
Behind
unassuming consonance lies a sonic attack
Like a synthetic
skin stretched over an ancient shame
We see only the
polished, spit-shined mask
And forget that, underneath, the skeleton still remains
A twin octave sound,
a machine-man’s voice
Whispers
seduction through binary code
He pleads
innocence but he’s left us with no choice
None can outrun
the omnipresent soundtrack he so carelessly wrote
Perpetually
bound by chains of saw waves,
Abrasive mouths
that chew on our warm sanctums,
A reverberating
nightmare that we cautiously obey.
March with me:
four beats, four chords.
The brash mouths
demonize you
If you dare to
ask for more.
Sing with me:
one tune, one law.
Behind the guise
of carefree smiles,
The wasp’s drone
permeates us all.
Clock in with
me, you cynic, and we will shape your mind,
Strip you of
your diction, your poetry, and pride
Fine tune you to
perfection, hold your hand and pray
Sweet
papier-mâché, you’ll become our Song of the Day.
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