The Humble Rock Dove

This band of dysfunctional brothers,
All sound so similar!
More power to them:
They that dare to growl,
To a symphony of monotony,
As they found pretty consistency,
Comfort, tranquillity,
Cacophonous liquidity,
Bizarrely tainted shapes,
Tessellating fluidly.

As brand-new boys behind the lines,
Of what might be less than poetry,
Carving their identities,
Ridiculing insincerity,
Giving hope,
Trying rope,
To tie around their happy fans.

A way of life, stashed,
By mechanical hands,
Forbearance and utterance,
Do what they do,
They urge the newcomer,
Fight for the new goal, now…

You, and your tribes pick axes,
For purpose, gold and lead,
For lithium and the dead, still, even,
Asking,
For that coveted dread and hope.
Though many say that’s gone,
They yearn,
And tear and burn in years,
Fusion keeps dreams alive;
An eternal summer sun,
Spurning your path.

American hardcore,
What more you want,
For your subscription?

Keep an even keel of money reeling in,
Supply the World with western cares,
Supersonic shiny, forms of will,
That rage, you know,
As way of life,
Is the way of man’s beast retrieval.

I shall see it your way!
I wake up, behold, today!
You climb in machines,
Bass, drum, guitar,
You growl,
I’m following you now.

You do what you do,
That’s good.
I see,
This machine,
Works and is welded,
To the tracks freedom set in spin.

I wont be treading in around here,
For very long,
If it really, needs to be,
Like this.

May I request a song?