Infront of people you're supposed to perform to, do you do what they want or what you want?

The distant gormless faces stare out.

Wanting me to fill their lives with something

They couldn’t possibly imagine themselves.

I stagger onto the stage

Half drunk.

Full tired.


The screamers begin to scream.

A pretty blonde at the front declares her love for me,

Shouting it to the stage.

She loves someone she doesn’t even know,

A stranger.

A stranger in a strange land.



I nearly stumble over a microphone lead

Stupidly trailing around the stand,

The front row gasp.

Maybe, maybe not.


The spotlight’s too bright,

I’m sweating already.

My jeans are worn from my heavy labour

My leather jacket is getting tight. Too tight.

My beard is getting too thick. Too heavy.

What is happening to me?


Suffocated by these three men

I’d do anything to start again

And take my path instead of theirs.

Oh well,

Maybe next time around.


I’d rather stand here and pour my heart out

Upon these unsuspecting people.

Distant gormless people.

I am pissed off.


I should stand here and recite my prose,

Sweet honey dripping from my lips and tongue.

Instead they pay me to stand here

And make me vomit vulgar commerciality.

I should vomit on them…

Maybe after another beer.


The intro on the moog synth starts.


I bellow a deep hatred down the microphone…

Stunned silence.


I begin softly, sweetly, delicately,

A few moments of hushed silence.

And then the protests begin;


The End

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