Archive for the ‘Comment’ Category

So, a few more people realized, remembered this year,

oh, the human penchant for so-called milestones,

isn’t publicity a wonderful thing?

And, how do *we* feel?

Hollow.

The added attention only serves to highlight people’s ignorance and ultimate apathy.

After distractedly devoting three minutes of half-attention,

they move on, banality beckons.

People are kinetic beings,

like polluted winds,

they move on,

affecting, effecting and infecting somewhere, someone else.

Do *we* ever move on?

(Only in my imagination…)

Generally, we are in a demented kind of kinetic stasis,

like atoms moving frantically, acting and reacting on instinct and memory, agitated, but not actually going anywhere.

(Where would you like to go?)

Home.

(What is “home”?)

A concept of comfort and belonging, safety.

(Is such possible in this world?)

… 

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“All I’ve ever needed is myself!” declared the self-righteous, prima donna, starlet. Her inspiration a right-wing, neo-facist, anti-clerical ideologue, perhaps. Or, maybe she’s just a selfish brat who is only really interested in pleasuring herself.

Nonetheless, she rates well in this world, obsessed with a financial bottom line.

True, it would appear based on her worldly success tick-off list.

An actress, recognized and paid way too much. A dog-lover. Arrested. Married to a bloated guy almost twice her age. Bisexual, she says she loves who she loves; tomorrow, who knows?

White trash.

The only constant is that she loves herself.

And the world would be better off is she stayed at home and satisfied her-oh-so-superior-self by touching herself alone, instead of screwing others blindly.

Quote: “All I’ve ever needed is myself!”

(No, this isn’t the deepest thing I’ve written but I feel like satisfying myself and ranting…)

… 

Filthy,

mewling,

obsequious,

sycophantic

scum.

The powers that be,

destroying all that is beautiful

and as much of the best of us that they can

for their own corrupt gain.

Hear it in their nasally, twanging voices,

worms and maggots,

writhing beneath the surface of

too fatty Kolbasa,

they want blood,

they want to suck you dry,

too much is never enough,

and they cry: GIVE ME MORE!

They are strong while they have a gun

and a gang to back them up

and a blind eye to look away.

But…

But

on their own they are like a single worm

on a concrete slab,

they wriggle and writhe,

they plead,

they die.

Left to fry in the summer sun.

Siloviki.

I can admit, I’m not a fan, of your American/Western music scene. And, by Western, I don’t mean “Country”, I mean that elusive concept of being which you tend to equate with the American idea of democracy, belief and civility – generally confusingly expressed, by NATO devotees, Australians, and everyone in between.

In any case, I just don’t see the appeal to the endless cacophony of songs about love, shallow and deep, soppy and suicidal, gang-banging and masturbatory. Nor the roughly other half of your songs which extol the virtues of Friday and Saturday nights, which seems to be what you live for, going out and getting out (getting out of your “usual lives” by doing the same thing weekend after weekend and, if you’re successful, you don’t remember a thing).

No, I don’t see the point to the words and messages conveyed in your music. No, I don’t see much point to your lives and what you live for.

But, then again, I just heard one of my favorite songs on TV being used to advertize anti-worm tablets for dogs.

So, who’s to say? Who’s to judge? Raison d’être? … I guess beauty’s in the eye of the beholder and, today, anything is for sale.

… 

Doctor Zhivago has become Ms. Trivago,

read into it what you like.

Censored,

myself, I never really got it.

In times of tumult (like every day),

we try to find a distraction,

something to give us hope, or ease the pain.

For some the story is epic, sweeping and cohesive;

for others it’s no less immense, but disjointed and staccato,

confusing.

Audiences like to be entertained,

when they have time to waste,

they like what their masters tell them to like,

the “worthy”…

the lauded and awarded, albeit actually shit.

The rich get richer,

the popular get more popular,

the poor get poorer,

the marginalized and misunderstood get ousted,

swept from history.

Time to get away.

Time to go back to myself.

… 

Break your rhythm,

break your soul,

advertizing leaves an empty hole.

… 

 

Pick a side, make a decision,

*quick*,

before it’s too late,

*act*,

choose what you believe.

All journalism is propaganda,

whether it’s cloaked in a guise of information

or entertainment,

it is written with an agenda.

… 

So, who do you believe?

Who’s message will you receive?

In these times, as ever,

it’s simply not good enough just to be.

We have to define ourselves as much by what we’re against

as what we’re for,

our jobs are insufficient to satiate our souls,

yes, we live as whores

and every breath we take is tinged with defeat.

Take me: I’m a copywriter, it’s advertising without glory,

I prostitute myself for the sake of cheese

and fatty sausage meat.

Somewhere around the time I lost sensation in my fingers,

when pain became a dangerous numbness,

as I was groping in the freezer,

deeper and deeper, without success,

somewhere around this time I was reminded,

somehow,

that Stalin was a child poet of some renown.

Beautiful sentiments and expressions,

masking a homelife as crappy as yours and mine,

stunning Georgian mountain backdrop,

still,

tumult of time,

the young seminarian quickly lost his faith,

(perhaps his words were lies all along).

Capricious twists of fate and brutal idiotic determination,

he rose, the devil rose.

Untold misery and torment, people and nations destroyed.

How many did he murder? How many more did he send over the edge?

Poet. Despot. Mother’s son. Murderous scum.

Two faces, one coin.

Which was the real “he”, which did he conceal?

One, both

or none?

Tonight we would like to issue a joint communiqué, through space and time, telepathically, quietly and forcefully, in our unique way:

Hey everybody: Merkel is a cancer. It may be a cheap shot, but it’s true, look at Germany suffer. … I heard all about it on a podcast or two.

Incoherent?

No, there is no such thing as an incoherent prayer,

nor the plaintive rantings of an earnest heart.

Listen, read, carefully,

tune out the background noise,

connect the dots,

wade through the confusion,

and maybe you will understand.

Maybe.

If you do, let me know,

I’d appreciate the insight (I feel like I’m stuck on square one).

Sigh.

*Shit!*

Enlightenment,

like a new pair of shoes,

takes time to fit.

…