musical Michelin men, changing our stations like tires, making movies melodies and melodies mockeries, break hearts with rhyming ironies cliche enough for our youthful psyches to believe again...
but rock & roll hall of fame hip hop hypocrits camp inside this skin and bone with their guns and spinners waking us into remedyless comas like Waco, Texas kool-aid grasping fanatics waiting for some Bruce springsteen, -make me cry- revival...
ties loosened by garage band -cleansheet addicts of rewording reworded words- pop stars disguising themselves behind "emo hair" and pencil darkened -i'm pensive- stares, curtain emotions in some six degrees of separation, "sure we get Lou Reed" sort of way until the numbness feels like depth and we are buried...
Bruce Springsteen makes me cry as he yearns for his Queen of Arkansas, Because I too am alone, seeking solace in angels in Asbury or bird preying on poetry atop wires as I pray for God to exist and for music to win back her soul...
but we have ALL sold our souls... for gasoline, for 15 minutes on a faux red carpet, for the confusion to leave and the pain to pass for the season to change and a smile to last...