Thursday, November 01, 2012

the sacredness of rock music usa

bent metal studs on a bus
stained black leather
and ripped fishnets
stale beer and cigarettes
hairspray and lubricant
the necessary ingredients
in baggies, bindles, packets
on the road again
the words won't stop
the riffs jump up
it bleeds from your brains
from the backseats of cars
from the black mesh of
your amps
reflected in pools
of drug-filled sweat
pixelated by shards
of safety glass
barking at your own moon
wango'ing without knowing
crotch-rocketing to stardom
from stardom toward 
hard scarred ground
you call it rock n' roll
but I still like it
your leering threat
the crowd mouths
wide open, packed in tight
your thrusting crotch
you wield the mic 
like a spiked hammer
throw your hair, your shoulders
studs, sequins breaking the light
the only part that's living
acting and strutting and sweating
on a platform
making artificial night

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