easlern
Boredom artist
Hi guys- could you help me get an idea of what style of song would go well with these lyrics? Does it sound like a ballad, some kind of absurd rock song, a pretentious experimental thing, or something else? 
I'm not looking so much for technical comments (although they'd be appreciated); I'm looking for suggestions on what "mood" it evokes in other people. Reading it again, I'm not sure it turned out the way I expected (I was trying for an indie pop ballad.)
Your opinions are much appreciated!
Crunching pigeons speak of victims
we have yet to meet,
Who open doors with cigarettes to
worship at our feet.
Who's the one who goes to rally?
That one's pretty weird.
Made impressions with his sound but
we hear that he's queer.
Circling that body in the
red dress while we dance
Are rings of smoke, the musk of lust, and
cheap small-town romance.
The fruits of youth will turn in time,
beaten down by age,
so quick we are to speak the lines
and turn another page.
[Chorus]
They want to be simple in a
complicated world.
They want to be dressed up and
have no place to go.
They want you to come back
but you can't come back home.
Zipping yellow lines draw wavy
routes between the maize
that traps the nameless spirits of
friends you never made.
Gone now is the spectre of a
heavy open hand.
Here now rest the memories of
dirt from flowing sand.
I'm not looking so much for technical comments (although they'd be appreciated); I'm looking for suggestions on what "mood" it evokes in other people. Reading it again, I'm not sure it turned out the way I expected (I was trying for an indie pop ballad.)
Your opinions are much appreciated!
Crunching pigeons speak of victims
we have yet to meet,
Who open doors with cigarettes to
worship at our feet.
Who's the one who goes to rally?
That one's pretty weird.
Made impressions with his sound but
we hear that he's queer.
Circling that body in the
red dress while we dance
Are rings of smoke, the musk of lust, and
cheap small-town romance.
The fruits of youth will turn in time,
beaten down by age,
so quick we are to speak the lines
and turn another page.
[Chorus]
They want to be simple in a
complicated world.
They want to be dressed up and
have no place to go.
They want you to come back
but you can't come back home.
Zipping yellow lines draw wavy
routes between the maize
that traps the nameless spirits of
friends you never made.
Gone now is the spectre of a
heavy open hand.
Here now rest the memories of
dirt from flowing sand.
I think you guys are right though- it's definitely not pop. . .