Yeah, take me down, take me away from this pop facade. This is cretin culture, weaned on formula and formality, cliqued and cliched in a Hollywood boardroom. Pass the popcorn. Dig me a hole I can get sick in.
Take me down. Down by the sea, where an old man with blistered hands tells me how he'd save the world, Unibomber style. Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice, but no one's complaining. We're spectating, waiting for the mirror to make the first move. We're non-autonomous, reaction without action. Feel me so I can know I'm being felt. Rock me so I can know I'm being swayed. But unh-uh baby, lay offa my shoes.
Dull my senses. I don't want to be reminded that I can feel. Senses are for sensations, and there's nothing in this nihil world worth the neurotransmitters it would take to get through my eight-inch thick skull.
See, I'm the secondhander in the dimestore searching for apocryphal T-shirts when I ought to be making my own. Who are the creators? Who has legitimated their creations over yours and mine? Fashion is fascism. If you don't believe that with the proper training and time you could create anything at all, better than it's ever been created before, you've stepped out of the human race and into the consumer data banks. One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small, one pill went to market and one pill cried out first person plural all the way home.
Take me down. Down to my old high school, where Jerry Garcia probably still owes $20 for damage to his P.E. locker. He's dead now. Then again, he's been dead since the late '60s. He's better off dead, better than this. Better than name brand merchandise, a bearded commodity hawking nostalgia like a miracle cure.
Take me down to funkytown, the aphorisms of everyday conversation, the drivel they pour out by the megawatt for passing space travelers to tune in to. We're broadcasting "90210" to Betelgeuse. Nobody wants the airwaves. No one wants to deal with the intergalactic consequences of our earthly chicanery.
We've marginalized causality, trivialized tautologies, lumped it up and boiled it down to monotonous stereotypes where the only differences are differences between degrees of indifference.
Dab my palate, seal my fate, kick me through the sewer grate. Our desires are written in stone, be it Rolling or Sharon. We've got to face the fax, study the pics, watch the flix, and so on amid self-consummating reciprocity in a world where there's nothing better to do than get old.
I won't be coming home tonight. "My Generation" will put it right. So the Antichrist walks into this bar...