He never said much. He was always trying new fashions of dejection;
supression - repression and depression. Was all the rage back then, to
rage and shake and move and fake and pretend to make something
similar to 'fighting the man' through garage rock'n'roll, late nights and
never eating your dinner. Rock stars were slim and thin and thrash and
smash and trash was out and everything was 'in' and new and
through this he found some kind of meaning, meek yet succinct, in
tearing the seaming; seeming however estranged - pariah
unworthy; although it was what he sought and fought and strived
with a passionate fury for - to be worthless and reduce his impact
and extend his impact and detract and retract and expand;
command some respect and never leave room to breathe. He
always saw himself in mirror-image, a devisage which was flawed,
the core of which was indistinct to him back then in the way back
when. He wrote lyrics after rhetoric absurd, discordant chord and
unspoken word, finding in this a release of sorts - in short, a
channel for his emotion in violent motion to pen on paper and didn't
find til' later; this was poetry. At first not freeform, not abstract, he
thought it would somehow .detract. from rhyme and beat and time.
Although rythym was a sustenance scarce left wanting; it devolved
and evolved to soul-heart bleeding - release and runnel and
godstroke funnel for all his pointless rage and love and somehow
something a little more or less than meaning. So now he writes, and
writes double-choke and full throttle for nothing but a whispered
word; absurd though it seems, it means so much more than Keats.
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