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Fuck what you heard, it's what you're hearing.
He was
looking
for the perfect imagery.
But it'd all been seen before.
All the rhetoric,
metaphor, allegory.
Carefully carved precise
with the tips of tongues.
And what shape would this
song take?
Or would it be left
formlesssssss
like mist
with no bounds?
A Picasso blob
meant to trickle into the depths
of your imagination
and tickle the ivory
of your soul
as chords of reverence
pour out your mouth.
But no matter which way you spin it
it's all been done before
to the point
where penning it takes a backseat
the minute you recognize
the beat.
And thump.
thump.
thump.
there it goes,
as your trunk rattles
with deja-vu.
I think
it's over.
Perhaps
we've reached
the limit to our exposure.
and the only muse left
is anti-muse
and already
it's being abused and misused
for retelling.
Absurd
to go on,
unless
you fuck what you heard
and so on...
