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
machines
that warp
and abuse
the process
there are
no more
real rock stars
there are only
electric junkies
Jake 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.
Nice work Jake.
Nailed it…
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.