| unimportant, and I’m about to mimic some image of a rock and roll
|
| singer I have under lock and key. |
| Without the faintest hint of irony that
|
| I’m flashing my pearly whites to sustain my mediocrity. |
| So is everyone
|
| having a good time tonight? |
| Good, I’m glad (I couldn’t actually care
|
| less). |
| You guys are the best crowd that we’ve ever seen, seen with
|
| these old dead eyes. |
| Blind to the stage or even my own lies. |
| So hey
|
| ho, let’s go. |
| Let’s start this contemptible «rock» show. |
| Blinding lights
|
| to hide the hand up our ass in this puppet-sock show. |
| Two sewn on
|
| eyes, repurposed and made new, torn from an aging suit for a sense
|
| of déjà vu. |
| Thumb underbite. |
| I bite my fucking thumb, and hope you
|
| catch a thread, and slowly come undone. |
| An illusion seldom spoken. |
| An
|
| understanding between you and I that the ground that you stand on
|
| is somehow less than mine. |
| An allusion to a broken home, left on the
|
| street and chilled to the bone. |
| So hey, we still feeling good? |
| Now you
|
| comprehend our complex relationship — consumer/consumed. |
| You’re
|
| just some stupid kid and I’m a megalomaniac. |
| Here comes that tortured
|
| artist now to sing of his despair. |
| Shedding defenses for an honest
|
| creation. |
| Placing yourself in the stocks on the strap. |
| You’re disgracing
|
| your effort by conforming to textbook performance of music to fill in
|
| the gaps, and it’s bullshit. |
| It’s bullshit. |
| Be honest, this can’t be what you
|
| wanted, if what you write about means anything to you. |
| Rather than
|
| pure vanity, people might connect with sincerity. |
| Don’t just pray the next
|
| generation learns from our mistakes. |
| Let’s not repackage the same old
|
| performance. |
| Original content is so much more rewarding. |
| I know that
|
| it might be quite cliché, but if all the world is in fact a stage, then this
|
| stage—this here goddamn stage—might just be all the world. |