It's A Shit Business

Why call it an artform? it's lacquered kareoke with a 
healthy cocaine habit and a make-up department. why call it
 composition? it's kids entertainment with a coterie of 
groupie yes-men pushing 'issues' on the easily bemused. and
 i wouldn't call it aesthetic or poetic, not even pathetic,
 but i might call it a spade. industry apothecaries are 
poring over gaping wounds in my lower abdomen. the 
blistering remedy retards my recovery - they're cutting out
 the liver unaware of what it does. can i make a 
confession? after the operation i am certainly not 
satisfied with my listening options. there's something 
moving but the pulse is dead. someone's speaking but the 
crowd has left. it's so well-packaged and over-sold, but 
still so tiring, still so old. and every teenage afternoon 
spent rifling racks in record stores in search of gold, and
 every compilation tape rerun until it broke on rusted 
walkman heads, and every single special song it only took 
two listens through to learn the words - were hours
Cherished and lessons learned. but you're the kids in the 
playground pulling hair and pointing fingers because your 
parents couldn't spoil you with self-esteem. it's in the 
look in the eyes, you are a dog in the hay, but we are 
kicking you out a single beat at a time.