I wrote this at about 1 a.m. I'd been watching Ghost Hunters all night on Hulu. They were some sort of abandoned Lunatic Asylum. I got inspired and wrote this. Now, I'm not too sure of the underlying theme of the poem, to be honest. I sort of wrote it focussing on strong imagery. Hopefully it conjures up imagery of an old seaside town, postmodern, blah blah blah "industrialization is bad mmm-kay" kind of thing. I seem to write a lot about masks and stuff. (Wonder what Freud would say about that). Anyway, it follows some sort of incoherent pattern. There's a chorus, one could say. Upon further reading into the lyrics, I suppose it's all about loneliness, longing, false-happiness; you know, teen angst stuff.

Victorian Ghosts of Simple Bay
We’re all part of a greater composite
Floating, breathing, press play and pause it
Shooting the target with rhinestone arrows
Open up the polyphonic bones devour the marrow
Gazing up at the sky hopeful for an achromatic sunrise
Head hung low under this disguise
Living life with masks of anonymity
Playing with the fabric of of equanimity
We’re all robots ghoulishly masquerading as beings of worth
Experience a premature death followed by an overdue birth
The beginning of the end is here pulling at the threads
The children all look on with heavy heads, with heavy heads
The afterthought remains
Like heavy cold steel chains
Lavender moonlight falls into the sea
Shouting out please come back to me
Grey skies fading away
Sunlight creeping into the bay
Ships and anchors floating endlessly
In the infinite sea of senility
We’re all robots ghoulishly masquerading as beings of worth
Experience a premature death followed by an overdue birth
The beginning of the end is here pulling at the threads
The children all look on with heavy heads, with heavy heads
Ghosts and spirits in boundless replay
Walking the streets of endless decay
Haunting the heartless and favoring the bold
Heavy and shining like the purest of gold
We’re all robots ghoulishly masquerading as beings of worth
Experience a premature death followed by an overdue birth
The beginning of the end is here pulling at the threads
The children all look on with heavy heads, with heavy heads

