The Panty Melter: In the Absence of Substance

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.