There are no more real rock stars… by Jake St. John


There are no more real rock stars…

There are
no more
real rock stars

there are
no words
or guitars
no drums
or alcohol
no pills
or drugs

no messages
or movements
no songwriters
or musicians
no depression
or art

there are
artificial voices
saying nothing
there are
that warp
and abuse
the process

there are
no more
real rock stars

there are only
electric junkies

12717226_10153457618953063_7225597431489508658_nJake St. John writes out of New London, CT and is the author of several collections of poetry and pamphlet poems including, Rotations (Night Ballet Press, 2015), I Talked To The Moon (Wandering Head, 2012), and Change of Address (Unarmed 2010). His work has appeared in numerous literary and arts magazines such as, The Blue Collar Review, Big Hammer, and The People’s Tribune. Since 2007 he has served as the editor of Elephant and co-editor of Flying Fish.

2 Replies to “There are no more real rock stars… by Jake St. John”

  1. Agree..and so it goes:

    Time Marches On

    They gathered when bonnets were
    fashionable and horse drawn buggy’s
    clip clopped over cobblestone,
    a tip of straw hat to the ladies of fashion
    bakery bread aromas competing
    with the trolley’s bell.

    They gathered when men looked
    for work, maybe a dime toss
    to ease hunger, wives scraping bits
    for soup, a needle and thread
    keeping the crease of dignity.

    They gathered when Johnnie
    came marching home, small flags waved
    as the dip and kiss, with tear filled bliss,
    replaced tear gas attacks
    and annihilation.

    They gathered to hear the strum
    of sidewalk poets singing out the pulse
    of dreams, hippies shoving flower power
    into the sky, a long haired salute to freedom
    and justice.

    They gathered to talk of assassination,
    moon landing, rock and roll, blockades,
    Beatles and beats from across the pond,
    hairstyles cut from a well placed bowl,
    no more, “just a little off the sides.”

    They gathered, oblivious to surroundings,
    cell phones stuck to ears, the fingers
    conversing with a click of button,
    instant anger in misconstrued thoughts,
    apologies stuck forever in towers of mail not sent.

    They gathered, to sit and watch what some
    like to call progress.

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