The Lords Of Shouting
The Lords Of Shouting
Everything shouts.
The television shouts through a thousand channels. Flickering through a thousand frequencies, making my own cut-up from the sound and vision until you leak through. A second of a voice that could be yours, a glimpse of eyes that could be yours, a moment of a song we heard together. The ache crawls into my hollow bones and the ruthless walls close in. I stand up naked in the pale blue moonlight of the TV screen and ascend. Tonight I'm a mutilated angel, using the cold concrete stairs to reach the sky, hunched over from the wounds where my wings used to be.
Radios howl. Keyboards clatter out of phones, calls and texts and emails. It's a loud world now. But not loud enough that you can hear me tonight.
In ancient Biblical lore, The Lords Of Shouting would gather at every sunrise, ten million five hundred thousand angels, and sing to God's glory as light flooded Heaven.
And I sit here on high, alone, as the world sings you into existence every morning. Up on the roof, shouting your name. Here on my own, the future behind me, wanting to shout out of ten million five hundred thousand mobile phones in this endless 2am. A Lord Of Shouting alone in the middle of the night, howling across an ocean and a continent to where the sun is going down. Wanting to shout the sun back up into the sky, kicking stars out of the way and making you see. Wanting to shout that I'm sorry, that I want you back, that I never should have gone. Wanting you to hear me shout your name.
I am a Lord Of Shouting tonight. But you can't hear a thing.
Warren Ellis 2003
Everything shouts.
The television shouts through a thousand channels. Flickering through a thousand frequencies, making my own cut-up from the sound and vision until you leak through. A second of a voice that could be yours, a glimpse of eyes that could be yours, a moment of a song we heard together. The ache crawls into my hollow bones and the ruthless walls close in. I stand up naked in the pale blue moonlight of the TV screen and ascend. Tonight I'm a mutilated angel, using the cold concrete stairs to reach the sky, hunched over from the wounds where my wings used to be.
Radios howl. Keyboards clatter out of phones, calls and texts and emails. It's a loud world now. But not loud enough that you can hear me tonight.
In ancient Biblical lore, The Lords Of Shouting would gather at every sunrise, ten million five hundred thousand angels, and sing to God's glory as light flooded Heaven.
And I sit here on high, alone, as the world sings you into existence every morning. Up on the roof, shouting your name. Here on my own, the future behind me, wanting to shout out of ten million five hundred thousand mobile phones in this endless 2am. A Lord Of Shouting alone in the middle of the night, howling across an ocean and a continent to where the sun is going down. Wanting to shout the sun back up into the sky, kicking stars out of the way and making you see. Wanting to shout that I'm sorry, that I want you back, that I never should have gone. Wanting you to hear me shout your name.
I am a Lord Of Shouting tonight. But you can't hear a thing.
Warren Ellis 2003