Lemonade Serenade (rev. 2)
Sometimes you want to say something, but don’t know how to say it. In many cases, those things are better done that said, as the archaic maxim ‘actions speak louder than words’ so tersely expresses. But then if, as I have said before, words are nothing short of pre-determined action, then the lemon is the egg and the ‘-ade’ is the chicken. You lost yet? Good. Because this is all about the (too often ignored) inkling that you have something significantly pertinent to contribute, yet suffer not only from an innate incapability to express exactly what it is but also the fact that no one really gives a shit.
In such cases I advise you, as someone of no importance whatsoever (truth also to the inverse), to strive to create something entirely incomprehensible to anyone other than yourself. Then evoke unto those others the uncomfortable position (out of their innate unquestioning politeness) of figuring out what in the fuck you’re on about. Endeavour to make them feel stupid to the point that they believe that you’re stupid. That your ideas are a ridiculously incomprehensible methane waste unworthy of synaptic impulse. Make them feel like they’re better than you.
Moreover, let them know what you are doing by doing what they wish they could do, but don’t do because they have the family-friendly shield of the universally accepted norm as excuse for their ‘ironic’ passivity. Shit on the floor. Aim to achieve from them the thinnest layer of amicable confusion draped over a river of seething hatred for dragging to light their utter failure to question anything that ejaculates into their salivating gluttonous mouths.
For when I sing and no one listens,
Sweet rhythms glistening like
crystals on lemon drops
sucked to shards,
to cuts and crimson mouths,
to sucking sounds,
to smacking lips and
The sweetness of sugar-dusted trickery,
the sticky treacle
trickling into dumb lyrics
dumbed with treachery.
This is a song I sing in the a.m.
when I wake and my gut is sickened,
a sickened silence-craved scream
When no one listens with ears,
When no one speaks with tongues
When no one will look me in the eyes,
With no attempt to understand or even try to argue.
Whilst they are at their work
selling minds for space, experience and time,
I am quenched by serenades of lemonade;
a drink of regurgitated razors.
My only regret is the sweetness of my song.
Too sickly for taste,
too sweet to swallow.
On deaf ears falls a bitter pith.
And so, drenched in citric blood
and with nothing left but hollow shells,
I load fickle words into a sawn-off shotgun
Spit out the sugar
And blow their fucking heads off.