Instruments

Do guitars get tired of singing the songs of others?
When the show is over,
Is the instrument completely overlooked?
I fear that they are,
But does not the guitar not have a soul?

During the after-party,
They lament in cold storage,
As the masters revel in the backroom,
It’s a noticeable lack of balance,
Especially for what is meant to be a partnership,

The guitar sits solemnly in the back,
It’s never demanded from the crowd,
Nor mentioned in reviews or impressions,
The glory claimed by its Hendrix or Knopfler,
Is it not a partnership?

Does the instrument not a share a soul with the maestro?

Pen Not Mighty

Any wordsmith needs a pen,
It’s our Excalibur,
Mine is no different,
But it’s just a pen,
Unlike those swords of myth,
Do you think this pen promises greatness?
Will it reside in museums?

I’m full to bursting of doubt,
It’s no legendary implement of a maestro,
Just the tool of a pretender,
It doesn’t seem so great or mighty,
Indeed it has no jewels or filigree,
Not a single endorsement of a great peer,
No blood of dragons on it,

They say it is grander than the sword,
But it’s just a pen,
And they are not made equal,
There is no might,
Just a slow black exsanguination
And a short trip to the bin,
Right next to its wielder.

Rockstars

Upon that stage perform rock deities,
Gods in leather and tattoo forms,
Or so they seem to think,
These are not humble musicians,
But bona fide rockstars,
Sex drugs and rigmarole,
Feeding off the crowds fervour,
Emotionally and financially,

Let the punters admire our bluster,
Lyrical talent precludes niceties,
The publics love is expected,
They are here to cradle our egos,
So the stars proclaim,
They must adore us,
That’s why we turned up,
A mere hour late or so,

Despite the honest many,
Entertainment breeds egotism,
The musical arts co-opted by arrogance,
Souls in it for purely monetary gain,
Peacocks with guitars and autotune,
Trilling manufactured static,
Music sheets reduced to commodity,
To pretentious product.

Tinseltown

That sign on the hill,
That ivory chapel to fame,
What those letters represent is a façade,
A corpse flanked by stage lights,
Shining and corrupt,
Sprawling yet shallow,

It’s a predator,
It has devoured countless souls,
The city sells glamour and exotic highs,
Whilst thirsting for youth and flesh,
Its alleyways are chock-full of corpses in tuxedos,
Skeletons of proteges and child stars,

It is beautiful,
The most lethal places are,
Those roads are coated in gold,
But peel those pavement stars up,
Slab by slab,
And underneath lies cancer and putrescence,

Those cityscapes hide much,
Casting couch teeth,
Vampires in directors chairs,
Narcotics around every block,
The city of angels?
An oxymoron to be sure.

Price Of Fame

What is the price of glamour?
The label upon fame,
Is it money?
A monetary tribute?
Luck?
The biased roll of a die?
How about effort?
Sweat of your brow?
Nay,
One does not believe so,
It is your very soul,
Your true worth,

No devils here in Hollywood,
It is not hell but a swamp,
Just flesh and blood mosquitoes,
In suits and movie sets,
You’ll be covered in plastic,
And follow a script,
Tied to a narcotic,
And they’ll love you for it,
The brainless throngs,
They’ll applaud as you lose yourself,
Just smile,
There are dollars in your eyes.