Sunburn Epiphones are there in your bones.
Everyday you dissolve your soul in Rock n’ Roll.
Now it is your age to take the stage.
And you are alive to do a stage dive.
A far fetched dream it may seem,
-To play to a crowd which is cheering aloud.
The time is never right for any stage fright.
It won’t do you any wrong to just sing your song.
Parent’s die. Siblings lie. Partners leave. Friends deceive.
Rock n’ Roll stays, and it does not discriminate.
On a sultry summer evening,
-The myna does not sing.
Curiosity might have cut off her wings.
It is a planned disaster on her part.
But graveling in the lowly dust thou art.
I uncork wine bottles and leave them at the kitchen.
Oh! What a pity.
Idealism mocked at me in a time when,
Curiosity killed my virginity.
Television is a unnecessary evil.
Shall you pay my utility bills?
I have over fifty channels to choose, over fifty ways to lose.
-While the dead band still plays dead man’s blues.
That was a beautiful place – her face.
There I was asked to consent – to represent.
Whatever lies before me – is discourtesy.
But of-course, I can’t possibly deign you manners by means of a sledgehammer.
‘No attachments and no miseries.’
That’s exactly how we’re supposed to be.
We sleep fresh and wake up tired.
But I’m not so sure if our lives are wired.
Cut the wire. Fly still higher. Light the fire. You’re a liar!
Evening is a smudge of yellow and crimson.
I almost mistook you for the prodigal son.
You’re the steadfast outcast, into the mire you’ll have to descend.
And that’s something you possibly can’t amend.
I know a boy, a little boy.
Who stays up till late.
Its two A.M. now.
And he’s still awake.
I know a girl, a little girl.
Who stays up till late.
Its two A.M. now.
And she’s still texting her mate.
A silent night, a holy night, temple of the dog.
A halogen light, a petty fight, chariot of the gods.
A round cup, a white cup, with love from the defector.
A powdery mass, some green grass, and god’s own black nectar.
We are the children of the nocturnal generation.
The psychotic products of total frustration.
We fuck sleep and stay up till late.
It is two A.M. now, and we’re wide awake.
All the black powder in that cup-
Is enough to keep you up-
Through the night and till dawn.
My generation is always on.
Rhombohedral depression of the Nocturnal Generation.
At this hour.
A cup from the defector containing that black nectar,
Which tastes sour.
All the insomnia that we gain-
Is essential to drown our pain.
Always we have the freedom to choose.
But my generation is always confused.
The Beautifully Grotesque 