Dead Channel As the sun goes down and the day fades to black a dead channel takes over the air hurling itself out of some radio station in a remote corner of a sun scorched desert. Radio-waves broadcast by some satanic bastard bouncing off the stratosphere and onto my radio A skeletal sound like boney fingers tapping Morse code on counter-top calling out the story of the lost and lonely the weak and wounded who have passed beneath the necrotic AM beam. It tells me the story of forgotten way stations of human misery on a lost highway and of places haunted by the trouble they've seen It points the way to shallow graves and whispers wind-swept secrets into my ear. The dead channel calls out my name and maybe one day I'll listen And follow that AM beam down the lost highway as that satanic bastard fills the airwaves Cutting through the heated night air under the cool glow of distant stars.