The Rockstar is a musician second. The music appeases the crowd into frenzy. The adoration is the Rockstar’s first most need – he’d be an actor if he wasn’t so clever with lyrics. The syncopated drums pound animal skins from past caves and recalls the ecstasy of the hunt and the madness which is conquering fear, which is evolution. (Important only after recognition of self. There was a Rockstar before there was a champion warrior.) Teenage girls scream and lose their minds like 1960’s British and American chicks during the first wave of drug crazed sexual revolution. The cunt appeared to enjoy orgasm and soon fought for women’s liberation which came in the form of pornographic art, which was quickly then manipulated into tool of trade to make trillions of dollars. The Rockstar tires of the repetitious formula and either overdoses drugs or knows his dosage like a good alchemist. There is no recovery from the self, give it only what it needs to improve. The machine needs fuel and time to rest to prevent overheating. Even the new F-35 jets which cost the American Taxpayers 300 Billion dollars run hot and crash. The Ejection seat was a fun ride. The Rockstar becomes Jesus Christ. The Rockstar wants nothing to do with meekness of Mohammad, the belly of Buddha or the confusions of Confucius. The Rockstar devours himself like Rimbaud’s imaginary wolf. He is immortal jellyfish able to age backwards like Benjamin Button and become singular, single-cellular… The self disguised as an abyss to sink into. The Rockstar dances around the edge of annihilation with his every wet kiss to the eternally fifteen year old audience. The song doesn’t remain the same! It ages in your head and becomes obsolete… I mean, it has many different nuances in every performance, some octaves higher, some notes stretched out and improvisations of various lengths between choruses… The Rockstar is image over sound; Jim Morrison’s pose, Mick Jagger’s strut, Paul McCartney’s fuck me satanic eyes and yes Elvis Presley’s hips will all live longer than Love, Love Me Do. The songs only matter that they came from such a sexually charged rebellious force, the anti-father, the anti-norm, the anti-suffocating society. The tragedy of the poem is that it was ever written. The teeth in the animal are jewelry. The Rockstar knows this and smiles with dynamite between his dentures. He is prepared to mark his seventy fifth birthday with a bang. None of the best groupies will be there, long dead…