Phoning it in since 1987
"but i wanna be a person!" comes a wail from the street. that's right, child--aim high; the evolutionary ladder isn't for the weak. hell, just last night someone was strolling this very same stretch of broadway wailing a tonedeaf rendition of Tainted Love alternating with a heartfelt ode to pussy. reach for the stars & you may come away with a few restraining orders, but it's nothing time won't heal like a big ticking band-aid. or is that a bomb? the only way to find out is to push the red button, & there's no time like the present to destroy the future!
the closest thing to accountability i'll ever touch: no more tomorrows until the functionality gap is closed. please don't ask for an explanation, you will not receive one. from the minds of the spiritually flaccid: though i walk through the valley of death i'm probably too fucked up to notice, & when the days of butchered biblical verse are upon us you know something's gone horribly horribly rotten in this tail-chasing literary swamp, where every burst bubble brings you closer to the last page. no peeking goddamnit. lend me your grappling hooks, i'm out of here, this "routine" is turning me into an unholy furniture-vegetable hybrid capable of little more than blinking & snarling. & not much of a snarl either, more demented housecat than enraged tyrannosaur. the land of opportunity shed its skin & left me to vacuum up the flakes. i turned in my two weeks notice before time dawned does that count? & for once i'd like it in time rather than money because we've seen what i can do with money & it isn't pretty. so--temporal alms for the porous, five minutes ago.
& then at some point you realize you are sitting in an apartment full of burnt out light bulbs worrying about who will save gary gilmore's eyes. with Ryder Pales deader than the new years' resolutions of a thousand obese suburban housewives & Mickey Western's second album floating in limbo somewhere between bad production & apathy in Miami i'm hardly even playing music "these days" except alone, instead interviewing musicians younger than me about their relative Successes & well this wouldn't be a problem except i can't write songs & try attracting potential band-forming entities when you have no material as bait. might as well stare at a wall & start asking it idle disney-villain questions concerning fairness, injecting apples with poisonous substances, hell why stop at apples. not my fault all my seemingly-cohesive bands evaporated [a small comfort when EVERYTHING ELSE wrong with this picture is, indeed, my fault] but 3am theremin alien-summoning isn't going to get me back to glastonbury.
"i never write anymore." oh go stab yourself in the prefrontal cortex helen. seriously i bet you'd be REALLY GOOD AT IT.
