Just Another Famous Rock Star
© Surazeus
2018 06 11
These days I sit around and stare at trees,
and white Geraniums blooming from my grave,
hoping their beauty, mysterious and strange,
will block out all the loss I have endured.
How wretched it is to grow old and weak,
broken by my war against pompous fools
though empire I fought is stronger than ever,
but I was not always this broken puppet
you see slouched on the porch of my farmhouse.
I was the golden boy of rock and roll
forty years ago when I was the king
of howling teenage angst from the high stage
of bold defiance against authority
who dared to judge me when I voiced opinion
contrary to their established world view.
My father, who worked in the national bank,
skimmed pennies from large corporate accounts
to bilk millions of dollars from those thieves,
so he spent five years in prison for crimes
that bankers themselves commit every day.
My high school principal, the uptight christian,
set his sights on me to play the scapegoat,
pointing to me as the example of evil
that my fellow good students should avoid,
so I started our band in my garage,
dropping out of school to spend all my time
singing diatribes against hypocrisy.
My furious energy burning through words
of every song, through which I channeled rage
against the vast machine of church and state,
propelled our little band to national fame,
so we played large gigs all across the land,
storming the gates of heaven with loud sound.
We recorded nine albums in twelve years,
expressing rebellion of teenage angst
against pompous figures of authority
that sold millions of copies to their children
while we traveled non-stop city to city,
playing every other night in giant stadiums
full of angry kids screaming at the night.
Hanging out in some bar with prostitutes
one night after we played in some huge city,
I passed out from heroin in dark alleyway
while my bandmates drove out of town without me.
I woke up in the hospital next morning
and saw the tragic news on television
how our touring bus in a fierce ice storm
crashed off the highway and rolled down a hill,
killing everybody in hot raging fire.
Though I was then and am still an atheist,
I felt horror that randomness of fate,
which can appear like divine retribution,
spared my life while all my bandmates were killed.
After I got out of the hospital
I bought this farm in the deep countryside
far away from bright cities and false fame,
and here I sit every day on my porch,
singing songs I write about life and death
to no one but deaf trees and cheerful birds.
I prefer this quiet life to world fame,
therefore I do not want to be inducted
into your fake rock and roll hall of fame.
Do you see those white Geranium flowers
that blossom in the sunlight of my peace?
I planted them in memory of my mother.
I am just another famous rock star
who plunged into the underworld of horror
to bring the lost soul back to paradise,
yet I came back with nothing but mute despair.
© Surazeus
2018 06 11
These days I sit around and stare at trees,
and white Geraniums blooming from my grave,
hoping their beauty, mysterious and strange,
will block out all the loss I have endured.
How wretched it is to grow old and weak,
broken by my war against pompous fools
though empire I fought is stronger than ever,
but I was not always this broken puppet
you see slouched on the porch of my farmhouse.
I was the golden boy of rock and roll
forty years ago when I was the king
of howling teenage angst from the high stage
of bold defiance against authority
who dared to judge me when I voiced opinion
contrary to their established world view.
My father, who worked in the national bank,
skimmed pennies from large corporate accounts
to bilk millions of dollars from those thieves,
so he spent five years in prison for crimes
that bankers themselves commit every day.
My high school principal, the uptight christian,
set his sights on me to play the scapegoat,
pointing to me as the example of evil
that my fellow good students should avoid,
so I started our band in my garage,
dropping out of school to spend all my time
singing diatribes against hypocrisy.
My furious energy burning through words
of every song, through which I channeled rage
against the vast machine of church and state,
propelled our little band to national fame,
so we played large gigs all across the land,
storming the gates of heaven with loud sound.
We recorded nine albums in twelve years,
expressing rebellion of teenage angst
against pompous figures of authority
that sold millions of copies to their children
while we traveled non-stop city to city,
playing every other night in giant stadiums
full of angry kids screaming at the night.
Hanging out in some bar with prostitutes
one night after we played in some huge city,
I passed out from heroin in dark alleyway
while my bandmates drove out of town without me.
I woke up in the hospital next morning
and saw the tragic news on television
how our touring bus in a fierce ice storm
crashed off the highway and rolled down a hill,
killing everybody in hot raging fire.
Though I was then and am still an atheist,
I felt horror that randomness of fate,
which can appear like divine retribution,
spared my life while all my bandmates were killed.
After I got out of the hospital
I bought this farm in the deep countryside
far away from bright cities and false fame,
and here I sit every day on my porch,
singing songs I write about life and death
to no one but deaf trees and cheerful birds.
I prefer this quiet life to world fame,
therefore I do not want to be inducted
into your fake rock and roll hall of fame.
Do you see those white Geranium flowers
that blossom in the sunlight of my peace?
I planted them in memory of my mother.
I am just another famous rock star
who plunged into the underworld of horror
to bring the lost soul back to paradise,
yet I came back with nothing but mute despair.
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