Dance to the rhythm of this new sound, that old new noise, the shape of punk that came and went. Dead horses that never seem to stay put: no matter how hard you hit them, they always get back up and dance to the rhythm of the old new noise. Its a waltz for whales on the beach, a sonata for sunlight trapped behind a tarp. The tango for two when the love of your life died before you ever met them. Weve got something youve never heard, and youll never hear it again. Something new you already knew, from people you knew with something new to offer. Dead horses never seem to stay put, but weve got the swagger of success, succinctly stating salvation is still sought stateside for those who needed some of that something new. The shape of punk that came and went is the dead horse who keeps on dancing. Ballet with broken legs. Swing that already swung, so this hearse for the horse, though it hurts to admit, is on its way off the cliff. Set to the rhythm of the old new noise.
Posted on: Tue, 29 Jul 2014 21:42:42 +0000
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