Take an harp, go about the city, thou harlot that hast been forgotten; make sweet melody, sing many songs, that thou mayest be remembered. Isaiah 23:16 (KJV)
Morrison, Hendrix and Janis the J. (with others lost tripping along the way) continue to enlighten young stoners, adolescent existential loners who hold them as holy and dig their writ in billows of ****-smoke. Listen to it: Hendrix and Joplin and Morrison, man were part of some cosmic, like, master-plan true prophets—thus sayeth The Lizard King. High as kites, their disciples hear them sing suburban anthems to teen perdition sirens of drug-addled sixties vision. pockets continue to empty for discs while taking somewhat calculated risks. Should vomitous overdose be esteemed with visions that actual prophets dreamed? These anointed cherubs of sad excess can never illuminate, much less bless a nation of youth who have lost their way and can't even choose which download to play. Morrison, man—that dude was so profound he broke on through to that state where I'm bound... Moon-struck drummers, now ghosts of dubious name live on, in pounding out their spectral fame; exploding dirigibles flown too high and blown to pieces in Lucifer's sky. Such riffs and licks and solos and visions should force us to some unkind decisions wherein we ask how free we really are when enslaved to a devil's fallen star.
NaPoWrtMo #29
Count my syllables. Behold beauteous imagery. Smile now—pay later .