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Poem

there are “bands”
you know them well---
they play songs to make
women’s undergarments 
fall 
away---
melt & drip down their
legs like
hot
wax
& you also know that the music that they
churn out
is probably written by the same 
round table of producers
who have been manufacturing the same 
formula
which they know works
(working formula + new face = profit for the dying record companies)
for decades now---
the songs are written for them
the music is taught to them &
really,
the only thing that changes are the 
stylists---
you know ya have to keep em’
hip
&
gorgeous for the 
photo-ops.

i wonder what they feel like
inside
when they play & sing the same song
that holds for them personally
absolutely nothing
&
when they look in the mirror before the big show
there is no reflection left to look back
i wonder what it is like to be all
style
&
no substance---
to walk amongst the edge of the earth 
not of flesh & bone
but instead of silicon, collagen, cosmetics,
perfumes, colognes, hair products, tanning products,
& name brand everything
until
the cows
come
moo-ing
home.

for some reason it makes me think of 
courbet’s then-controversial
L’Origine du monde in 1866
with a 21st century metaphorical 
update
where the human form laying splayed open
cannot be discerned
to be
male or female
for be it 
anus or vagina
the panty melting rocker
doing it all for nothing but the
bank
lays splayed open in exactly the same way
a corporate whore
whose national idiocy
puts the pedal to the metal
& drives right on through
looking for something on the other side
a meaning to the 
interchangeable
tunes
but alas,
there is 
nothing.

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