We Musicians
Miles Shelby who has long-sandy coloured hair and breathes through a hairy set of nostrils and wears worn-out hippy shorts is not my friend. The reason I mention his nostrils is his nose is oppresively long. Emile whose name sounds like the male version of Emily is not my friend either. He wears a long beard but is basically worthless. He just practices yoga poses all day and grows his beard and his parents have to put him up.
When they both died last year I felt no remorse. Miles got bricked in the head by some addict in long street and Emile died in a car crash. The two of them were not a credit to society. I won't say they deserved death but they were tramps; bums without any purpose. I am thinking of them as I put on my sunglasses and head into the elevator. The hallway is long and colorless. I like it this way. It reminds me of how pointless this world is.
I am off to a music concert. The crowd is my church. I'm the evangelist. I make them wait for my gigs. I'm no narcissist, it's just that I know their ideas are basically worthless. They are all pigs and none of them respect my ideas, therefore none of them respect me. If one of them respected my ideas, then maybe I'd respect them. But they don't.
The gig goes well. All the people there are happy. It kind of makes me sad that they can get happy off the most miserable person on earth. They have no idea how pointless the source of my music is. It's basically a black hole that came from pure anger, waves of it which somehow formed a little black cove of creativity on the beach of time. That's also a load of sentimental garbage I just made up to bamboozle you.
I see Darryl. He's the most jealous of the trio that was Miles and Emile and he's the sole survivor. He's also the one that mocked me the most when the other two were still alive. I figure he's jealous of my intelligence. I threw him out last year when I discovered he wasn't inviting me. Imagine it: I was exiled to my tiny village, thrown out on my ear, and the angels didn't like it. We kicked him out of the mob even though he was the only possible candidate for it from that trio. We don't forgive traitors. Not unless they repent.
This is a lot more like a gang than people like to admit. Our gang of angel busters. You mess up; you betray a brother and you're out. You rarely get a second chance, especially if you're a poser like Darryl. The guy has got nothing, yet he'll throw his weight around as if he owns the world. Heading up some hysteric vegan cult in Australia now. Wonder how he's liking the police state under covid laws. Like I say. The angels punish the traitors He's never stood up for anything either. Always politically correct; always loud; always self serving. No honor. Just a man-whore who abuses the good graces of women. Worms his way in and takes what he can. God doesn't appreciate that behavior. And when he treated me like a dog, that was the last straw. God took him down.
Now I live in the city. I live it up. We have Bible studies every night. We musicians of King David's court. Every day is a song. And those who are now in hell, I'm sorry about that. But they were generally slimy caricatures of real men. Now I'm in charge. I know it'll probably be short-lived, but I don't play games anymore. I take a lion's swipe at Godless individuals. My music isn't for the masses. It's for God. And I'll reel the people in. My hook is I don't use women like others. I improve peoples' lives. I hate evil. And I won't put up with insolence. For that I'm made invisible. But it only feeds the fire up in the heavens. I get more fired up and one day I'll play a song that'll kill off the last detractor. Music is the only weapon that matters, and I work in King David's court. Granted that I don't mess up with women, I'll be just fine.
When they both died last year I felt no remorse. Miles got bricked in the head by some addict in long street and Emile died in a car crash. The two of them were not a credit to society. I won't say they deserved death but they were tramps; bums without any purpose. I am thinking of them as I put on my sunglasses and head into the elevator. The hallway is long and colorless. I like it this way. It reminds me of how pointless this world is.
I am off to a music concert. The crowd is my church. I'm the evangelist. I make them wait for my gigs. I'm no narcissist, it's just that I know their ideas are basically worthless. They are all pigs and none of them respect my ideas, therefore none of them respect me. If one of them respected my ideas, then maybe I'd respect them. But they don't.
The gig goes well. All the people there are happy. It kind of makes me sad that they can get happy off the most miserable person on earth. They have no idea how pointless the source of my music is. It's basically a black hole that came from pure anger, waves of it which somehow formed a little black cove of creativity on the beach of time. That's also a load of sentimental garbage I just made up to bamboozle you.
I see Darryl. He's the most jealous of the trio that was Miles and Emile and he's the sole survivor. He's also the one that mocked me the most when the other two were still alive. I figure he's jealous of my intelligence. I threw him out last year when I discovered he wasn't inviting me. Imagine it: I was exiled to my tiny village, thrown out on my ear, and the angels didn't like it. We kicked him out of the mob even though he was the only possible candidate for it from that trio. We don't forgive traitors. Not unless they repent.
This is a lot more like a gang than people like to admit. Our gang of angel busters. You mess up; you betray a brother and you're out. You rarely get a second chance, especially if you're a poser like Darryl. The guy has got nothing, yet he'll throw his weight around as if he owns the world. Heading up some hysteric vegan cult in Australia now. Wonder how he's liking the police state under covid laws. Like I say. The angels punish the traitors He's never stood up for anything either. Always politically correct; always loud; always self serving. No honor. Just a man-whore who abuses the good graces of women. Worms his way in and takes what he can. God doesn't appreciate that behavior. And when he treated me like a dog, that was the last straw. God took him down.
Now I live in the city. I live it up. We have Bible studies every night. We musicians of King David's court. Every day is a song. And those who are now in hell, I'm sorry about that. But they were generally slimy caricatures of real men. Now I'm in charge. I know it'll probably be short-lived, but I don't play games anymore. I take a lion's swipe at Godless individuals. My music isn't for the masses. It's for God. And I'll reel the people in. My hook is I don't use women like others. I improve peoples' lives. I hate evil. And I won't put up with insolence. For that I'm made invisible. But it only feeds the fire up in the heavens. I get more fired up and one day I'll play a song that'll kill off the last detractor. Music is the only weapon that matters, and I work in King David's court. Granted that I don't mess up with women, I'll be just fine.
You can piss RIGHT off.
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