Static Sermons

Mouths like lint in the ventilator, blowing soft, recycled weather. They speak in slow photocopy, same sentence, different paper. Words fall like loose change, clink in the gutter of my skull, every phrase a borrowed echo from a distant, sleeping mall. Hum of a fluorescent gospel, speechless prayers in stereo. Nobody sings the same tune, nobody knows where the chorus goes. Endless talking, empty windows, air like radio you can't tune. They say the sun will rise tomorrow — but they forget the moon. Chatter like a drowning chorus, all the edges fade to grey, voices knitting up the nothing, and I watch the meanings fray. They have maps drawn on the inside of their eyelids, instructions printed on the back of their hands. They trade in rumor like currency, spend it fast on shaky plans. Watching mouths arrange themselves into polite, machine-time smiles, I count the teeth, I count the pauses, find the missing lines. Static priests on static pulpits, preach the weather, name the pain. Like wind-up birds on windowsills, they keep chirping the same refrain. Endless talking, empty windows, air like radio you can't tune. They say the sun will rise tomorrow — but they forget the moon. Chatter like a drowning chorus, all the edges fade to grey, voices knitting up the nothing, and I watch the meanings fray. Tap the glass, hear canned applause, buy a ticket to the pause. Our names are scribbled in the margins, lost between the nods and laws. If truth is a quiet house, they build a highway through the walls, drive their tongues like trucks at midnight, until the last lamp falls. Say something, say anything: it’ll sell a chair or calm a storm. But the room remembers silence, and the silence keeps us warm. Turn the dial, find the pulse, let the static be your light — less is less and less is honest, less is finally alright. Track from the album "Canary In The Coalmine"