deepundergroundpoetry.com
Without Music the World Dies
Each Auld Lang Sin
drinking to the absent,
one day, my dears,
your glasses will be empty
An urn awaiting our turn
may the ashes lie as stubble
on the statues of great people
Strumming until the drumming
became the faint rhythm of dying dreams,
emotional air-raids exhausted our hearts
until, finally, someone shot our plane from the sky
drinking to the absent,
one day, my dears,
your glasses will be empty
An urn awaiting our turn
may the ashes lie as stubble
on the statues of great people
Strumming until the drumming
became the faint rhythm of dying dreams,
emotional air-raids exhausted our hearts
until, finally, someone shot our plane from the sky
Published 13th Mar 2025
Author's Note
3 of The Collector, probably the worst group in indiedom. Only 2 of us left and we never wrote a song about that. We were destined for a tour of kitchens. As the NME never said "they were shite." All jingle jangle guitars, lipstick on collars and dreams.
As the fishmonger Dickens wrote 'they were the best of times, they were the worst of times.'
As the fishmonger Dickens wrote 'they were the best of times, they were the worst of times.'
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Anonymous
14th Mar 2025 11:35am
words don't lend themselves to loss
always <3
always <3
