It's a wall that hits you here,
Your own noise back at you,
A room-sized plate echo,
The reverberation of architecture,
Brought to you by no one,
This is the noise of the future,
The past and all in between,
Dissonance in red and grey,
Where the ore of all that's precious,
Sweats astronomy into the air,
Stealing the humidity,
To make the dry air sing the more,
Unobstructed by pollutants,
This wail and thump and screech,
Will reach you unattenuated,
Raw and free of the dirty world,
Where the work day ends,
And the dead of politics fails,
The sexless group will fill the space,
The jaded empty mind of gods,
The bandwidth fully occupied,
By frequencies in wide ranks,
Ejecting the unreasoning voices,
With skip and scratch and jump.
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