Underbite

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.