_{Gorgeous show, really really amazing. I'll just assume this is obvious.}

The curtain falls, a trail of black whispering through the air to the ground,
a single scream, I think, from me,
We're from America, We're from America...
And so you pounce into view,
Black on black.
Hell etc.

To you, we're just Disposable,
“I wanna know what Victoria's Secret is...”
I think I could tell you, if you'd listen to me,

You're so different, every time around,
you look revived, and Pretty as a $,
tall, extenuated and meager,
my Snow White Regal, rubied lips and charcoaled eyes,
loving you is cherry-pie.

Little Horn, Little Horn,
it's been awhile...
You make me feel Irresponsible,
We hate love, we love hate,
military hats and American flags,
the latter graces your shoulder, before the hoard tears it to pieces.

Vinyl hat, inspired by the likes of pirates,
you've changed your coat,
everything in the arena seems to harmonize with you, including your loyal crew,
Melancholy, like Four Rusted Horses, Darling
All just dieing carousels.
Different from your bizarre norm, softer, gentler,
though, perhaps not at the core.

WOW.
Cue cards, and stroboscopic blue....WOW,
Etc, rape, WOW,
“Let's dance,” you call us names,
and I have come to the uneasy conclusion that if I can see you as clearly as I do,
then you can surely discern me too,
Synthetic, pulsing bass, crooning,
an obnoxious, personal light, that you paw at consistently,
knocking it around to momentarily blind my eyes.
You move, in time, sliding rhythmically up and down the length of the mic stand, like a dancer's pole,
before cheekily sauntering forward,
coquettishly keeping time to the music, to your own melodic rasp,
with your precious, pale hips.
You're more co-ordinated at such things than my perspective of you was willing to admit,
your amusing, sultry saunter dominating all previous judgments made on you.
Did I stop and take a look at who I fell in 'love' with?
At who I fell in 'love' with?
Wow! Wow! WOW! Wow. Wow!

You curl your fingers in a silent challenge,
and you announce, with an unusual proportion of tongue-in-cheek,
“I'm well aware I'm a danger to myself—Are you aware that I'm a danger to others?”
I don't care if you are. Really. I don't.
Leave a Scar, I beg you.

“Anyone got a Canadian dollar bill?”
I honestly can't tell if you're joking, or just ignorant.
“Just give me a bill!” you pause as you are handed one,
“There we go,” you purr,
it seems that I'm the only one who thinks that you've just taken someone's five dollars.
Cheerfully, you roll it tightly, and insert it casually up your nostril,
as though you might actually...
You're my star, yes, in the Dope Show,
instruments crunch, a raunchy, yet pleasant crash of electric guitar and bass,
and an underlying drum riff that makes the whole crowd sway subconsciously.
And you lead it, again slithering along the mic stand,
“Hate today, no love for tomorrow...”
You drop and pretend to make love to the amplifier,
though, you don't seem consider love an option,
however, in your lanky, nearly feline proceedings,
I can't help but notice how much control you have over those deadly hips of yours.

You're the most enticing person to observe,
adorable, in your own way,
a secret smile, the one I know does not appear often,
but it's lovely when it does.

Rumbling bass,
I Want to Kill You Like They Do in the Movies...
I would worry about your mental state, due to the sadistic flare,
but the lyrics are gravity-defying, stunning enough to stop the healthiest of life-beats,
just like you.
You adopt your provocative walk,
mussing your hair, with long, spindly fingers,
in between the showing of you're svelte fedora, which like all hats,
you seem to momentarily treasure.
But it is your voice that is truly alluring here,
as you flaunt the entirety of your range.
I recall reading somewhere, someplace, that you did not truly sing,
instead you had perfected the art of delicately screaming, and moaning to music.
In some way, I suppose that's justifiable,
as your voice mirrors here, enchantment, death, sex—in that order.
Rising and falling in dramatic, shrieking wails, softly crooned stanzas, and suggestive hints,
that you're really just a twisted nocturne,
all into the microphone.

“Rock!” Shrieks.
“Rock!” More squeals and screams at your voice. “Rock!”
Is deader than dead?
Not, I think, because of you.
It's spirit possesses you to the point of insanity,
to dangerous incentives.

And the lighting seems to suffer an eclipse, for a moment that gives you room to breathe,
I begin to feel the gnawing claws of worry.
What if you do not return?
But, suddenly, there is a little ray of light,
penetrating the darkness, as you hold it in your hand,
and as you begin again to sing, you do not relinquish your light, as if it comforts you to hold it physically,
as if you're unsure whether it exists on the inside.
Whether it is nothing more than a Sweet Dream.
You collapse,
crawling, on hands and knees,
my own Felis silvestris,
“I want to use you, and abuse you,
I want to know what's inside...”
You sing the words, but you don't know what it means...
Not to me.

Solos,
organized chaos, I think it would be classified as.
Crisper, though, cleaner than the last time I saw you, and I'm grateful.
And all the while, I'm thinking,
“Baby's like a gun, got his finger on the trigger,
Baby, Baby, Baby is a Rock N' Roll...”
And so you march to the right, to your questionable companion.
You two have always been close,
and you assist him in his musical musings,
tapping the strings, while he forms the notes.
It's an interesting gesture of affection, but,
suiting.

Square lights flash rhythmically in blackness,
you've disappeared.
Encore, I'm sure.


“How does it feel...to be...
one...
of...
the...
BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE?”
Your constant question to everybody you encounter,
we are no different, if only a little less aesthetic,
maybe that sits well with you.
Again, you demonstrate your fondness of behaving like an animal,
sinking again to the floor,
beneath a layer of swirling, silver-white smoke.
I panic, for I can no longer see you,
what I came to see,
to live,
to breathe.
Then you show up again, peering up at your guitarist from the stage-floor,
before scrambling again to your feet.
“Hey, You! What do you see?”
I see something beautiful, something free.
Power-chords, crash, crash, crash...
Kiss, kiss,
and you've vanished.

Your curse is....
My best friend...
I wish that you could see it...
Your curse is...
My best friend...
Sometimes, I wish you'd see it.