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You'd be nothing without me. |
Idol Rock slave, electric choirboy, you were never a god. A floater, a flutterer and a tongue-lashing flagellator, you blistered me with hot, rancid prose and I moved with you, even when you didn’t anymore. I didn’t want you to be human, to drip sweat, or cry. You kept your humanity bound in the ethereal limits of leather, with the poetry and the blood, knowing that your power was sugar-glass fragile. Cracks, fissures, and saltwater tears would bring it all down, powdering us all, leaving us covered with the ash of a burned-out idol. Religion needs its disciples in order to be heard. Swinging on your hymns, tarnished by your varnish, the wild-eyed children made you the most supreme of all the believers. The bottle of liquid glitter-fiction somehow filled you up, with easy faith and watered-down benedictions. But, you fell. Your art owed its power to starry-eyed worshippers, creating you, exposing the artifice of your cabalistic power. Shame on you, sugar, for believing in me, and for buying my praises which have cost you more than you could ever afford. The pageantry, the words, and the glint of steel-cool sainthood meant more to you, than it ever did to me. |