the panty melter (in the absence of substance)

see note for reviewer.

there are “bands”

you know them well---

they play songs to make

women’s undergarments

fall

away---

melt & drip down their

legs like

hot

wax

& you also know that the music that they

churn out

is probably written by the same

round table of producers

who have been manufacturing the same

formula

which they know works

(working formula + new face = profit for the dying record companies)

for decades now---

the songs are written for them

the music is taught to them &

really,

the only thing that changes are the

stylists---

you know ya have to keep em’

hip

&

gorgeous for the

photo-ops.

 

i wonder what they feel like

inside

when they play & sing the same song

that holds for them personally

absolutely nothing

&

when they look in the mirror before the big show

there is no reflection left to look back

i wonder what it is like to be all

style

&

no substance---

to walk amongst the edge of the earth

not of flesh & bone

but instead of silicon, collagen, cosmetics,

perfumes, colognes, hair products, tanning products,

& name brand everything

until

the cows

come

moo-ing

home.

 

for some reason it makes me think of

courbet’s then-controversial

L’Origine du monde in 1866

with a 21^st century metaphorical

update

where the human form laying splayed open

cannot be discerned

to be

male or female

for be it

anus or vagina

the panty melting rocker

doing it all for nothing but the

bank

lays splayed open in exactly the same way

a corporate w***e

whose national idiocy

puts the pedal to the metal

& drives right on through

looking for something on the other side

a meaning to the

interchangeable

tunes

but alas,

there is

nothing.

Author's Note

Barry's Customer: Hi, do you have the song "I Just Called To Say I Love You?" It's for my daughter's birthday.
Barry: Yea we have it.
Barry's Customer: Great, Great, can I have it?
Barry: No, no, you can't.
Barry's Customer: Why not?
Barry: Well, it's sentimental tacky crap. Do we look like the kind of store that sells I Just Called to Say I Love You? Go to the mall.

-High Fidelity (2000)