Marilyn WHO ?

I started watching videos about trashed rock stars last night.

It made me think about how awful it must be for Brian below to transform into a thickset has-been with a receding hairline and addiction issues. Being a professional rebel and shocking the bourgeoisie with moral transgression gets old. And so do we.

Loons in the vineyard—sound the alarm !
Satan is milking his metaphors.
Such silly music portends no harm;
call home the cows and open your doors.

Brian Hugh Warner, a paleface freak
after finding his mom’s mascara
darker enlightenment did seek
and crowned himself with Baal’s tiara.

Scary drag-queen, scandalous, vain
Marilyn, the creepy thespian
rolled that fish-eye and snorted cocaine
like Crowley… how pedestrian.

Flashing his glowing cataract,
he gave the mommies quite a fright.
Censorship launched; no badder act
did sail (or assail) our sinking night.

Gothic dim-wits purchased CD’s
bought the goods, pierced parts, wore black.
(Cause for certain parents’ unease:
MTV’s Antichrist on the attack).

Son of Man—or rather, Manson
Milked to the max his demonic cow;
playing Satan’s naughty grandson
showing the flustered milk-maids how.

Urban legend surrounds this fowl
(those ribs removed like Adam’s sin!)
Is he a misunderstood night owl—
or a has-been loon in a loony bin?

Rock-stars age (well, most) like a cheap wine.
or else in the way once-ripened grapes
withering, sun-struck, off the vine
transform, with age, into wizened shapes.

No—I am wrong. They age like prunes;
plums thus pass into their glory.
Even Luciferian loons
find lakes of fire at end of story.

Lost Prophets Regained

Apr29

Take an harp, go about the city,
thou harlot that hast been forgotten;
make sweet melody, sing many songs,
that thou mayest be remembered.

Isaiah 23:16 (KJV)

Morrison, Hendrix and Janis the J.
(with others lost tripping along the way)
continue to enlighten young stoners,
adolescent existential loners
who hold them as holy and dig their writ
in billows of bong-smoke. Listen to it:
Hendrix and Joplin and Morrison, man
were part of some cosmic, like, master-plan
true prophets—thus sayeth The Lizard King.
High as kites, their disciples hear them sing
suburban anthems to teen perdition
sirens of drug-addled sixties vision.
pockets continue to empty for discs
while taking somewhat calculated risks.
Should vomitous overdose be esteemed
with visions that actual prophets dreamed?
These anointed cherubs of sad excess
can never illuminate, much less bless
a nation of youth who have lost their way
and can’t even choose which download to play.
Morrison, man—that dude was so profound
he broke on through to that state where I’m bound . . .
Moon-struck drummers, now ghosts of dubious name
live on, in pounding out their spectral fame;
exploding dirigibles flown too high
and blown to pieces in Lucifer’s sky.
Such riffs and licks and solos and visions
should force us to some unkind decisions
wherein we ask how free we really are
when enslaved to a devil’s fallen star.

Count my syllables.
Behold beauteous imagery.
Smile now—pay later
.

Marilyn WHO ?

May20