Rock-N-Roll Zombies

Guitar heroes
crawling out of ground zero
shark eyed and porno
pouting like them femme fatales
in “Addicted to love.”
Perhaps the precursor
to the pretense.
A pose is a pose
is a pose for the ghouls
of cool parading
as rock-n-roll gunslingers
on television,
magazines and billboards.

Hollow bodied bulimics
with Kensington gore
dripping from the cut
edge of plum painted lips
at just the right angle
to sell, sell, sell.
Fantasize and accessorize
and they all have Fenders
or Les Pauls hanging
across bony thighs
like AK-47 submachine guns
shredding, thrashing and killing
any sense of the one.

Leading the lemmings
on by the G string
and even the half pints
get into the play
with Ray-Bans and Fisher Price
vice via sonic histrionics.
And it’s all so overrated
with the music emasculated,
the dancing dead
sucking all the blood
out of the song.

And it’s all so saturated
and it don't mean a thing
cause the only thing
swinging around here
is a guitar burning
in effigy till the air
fattens with the smoke
screen of muzak
polluting the padded
walls of an elevator
going down, down, down.

I've gone numb and I got the Dts
causing me serious contortions
jonesing for guitar chords
drenched in distortion and passion
rather than the fascism of fashion.
Ain’t nothing left to do but
be like Belushi in toga smashing
Bishop’s guitar in Animal House.

But I ain’t gonna apologize
like Bluto with them sad eyes
cause it’s sacrilege
how these auto tune goons
gloat while betraying the legacy,
so the sound of wreckage
weighing in on their heresy
will be music to my ears.