Million Dead

why call it an artform? it's lacquered kareoke with
a healthy cocaine habit and a make-up department.
why call it composition? it's kids entertainment with
a coterie of groupie yes-men pushing 'issues' on the
easily bemused. and i wouldn't call it aesthetic or
poetic, not even pathetic,
but i might call it a spade.
industry apothecaries are poring over gaping wounds
in my lower abdomen. the blistering remedy retards
my recovery - they're cutting out the liver unaware
of what it does. can i make a confession?
after the operation i am certainly not satisfied with
my listening options. there's something moving but
the pulse is dead. someone's speaking but the crowd
has left. it's so well-packaged and over-sold,
but still so tiring, still so old.
and every teenage afternoon spent rifling racks in
record stores in search of gold,
and every compilation tape rerun until it broke on
rusted walkman heads, and every single special song
it only took two listens through to learn the words
- were hours cherished and lessons learned.
but you're the kids in the playground pulling hair
and pointing fingers because your parents couldn't
spoil you with self-esteem.
it's in the look in the eyes,
you are a dog in the hay, but we are kicking you out
a single beat at a time.