Here’s a situation.

He’s a hard fucker slow drifter porn megatroll.
She’s an up-caste trashy class sweet street honey who can walk the talk.
They met and lost each other in a quarter of a minute, when she opened her mouth and he opened his zipper.

This is what happens when one sits, anticipates listening in to a new single, and the song turns out to be a bad blowjob and sour sound sex. 

The fame and notoriety of the so-called artist does not determine the hit of the beat and the taste of the lips of lyrics and the touch of the timbre and the breath of rhythm. It requires a certain lust for making love with what makes a song, an orgasm of talent and concept and expression paired with a particular unification of its ingredients that gives birth to life. 

but those who make love are discreet, and ergo, underground.

when you turn on the radio, you get a stream of classless vulgarity, flashy whores dressed to kill who trade a random series of chords and words for wads of cash, who indulge in the act of making a song for the sake of the need, a temporary release.

and so the world comes down to this. the stereotypes rode the sun and crash-landed into a generation who won’t rest, who won’t be silenced. this isn’t what it used to be.

we used to speak in microphones and guitars and bass and drums and sound waves about the excrement of the government, used to scream anarchy and lambaste society and talk about real pain and bleed through instruments and lyrics, used to see that life is a bitch and it’s not all about the partying and the fun and the wild and the free, used to use music as much as we use facial expressions and gestures and heart and soul and mind.

the present vox populi statis is a market of fame and vanity and a waste of talent.

THE SUNSHINE HAS BECOME MOONLIGHT, AND YOU EITHER GO STARGAZING OR GET A MOTHERFUCKING FLASHLIGHT, BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACKOUT, AND YOU STAY FOR THE RISE OF POST-PUNK POST-METAL POST-EMO POST-EVERYTHING COREFEST WHERE EVERYONE LOOKS AND SOUNDS THE SAME AND PLAYS THE SAME SET OF CUNT CHORDS WITH REPHRASED AND RECYCLED LYRICS ALL OVER AGAIN, LIKE NON-PROGRESSIVE ENCORES, BECAUSE MAINSTREAM ROCK USED TO BE RED HOT AND ALIVE AND SOUL-EXCHANGEABLE, AND HIPHOP USED TO BE A REFLECTION OF LIFE IN TOTALITY IN BEATS, POP MUSIC USED TO BE TRUE TO ITSELF, AND PUNK IS DEAD.

THE WORLD WILL END NOT WITH A BANG OR SILENCE; IT WILL END WITH THE PUBESCENT WHINE OF JUSTIN BIEBER & THE LIKES OF HIM.

But there’s hope. We can still keep the faith. Heroes don’t blend in with the crowd.

Our heroes are somewhere, fighting for the right to have sweet authentic ear candy. Support a local band, scour indie music. Find gold. 


(c) 2012
Vivien Marie Lopez
SPIT OR SWALLOW

 

    Author

    Hey boys and girls. 
    My name is Vivien Marie Lopez, and I breathe from Zip Code 6100, Islas Filipinas.

    I write stories, poems and songs. You can read them here at Spit Or Swallow. 

    The Lung Opener is for my succubi and incubi in utero. 


    NOW OPEN YOUR LUNGS
    .






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