And for Joey Ramone, who helped teach him.
Rock 'N' Roll never looked this easy.
Staring at the vinyl walls,
this side of Max's Kansas City,
the children wear costumes of
leather jackets and black denim trousers,
eyes hidden by shaded masquerade.
They're forming in a straight line.
Broadway looks so medieval
in the middle of the evening.
I got my time machine
and a pocket full of destruction,
like Dylan and fractured promises,
poetry on acid.
Anything to avoid the void,
I sink into the raging beauty
of vinyl insulin, to see what the mirror does
when I expose my veins, like secrets
made of oxygen.
A recipe for change:
45 revolutions per minute.
33 1/3 evolutions per monkey.
I see no evil here.
I hear no devil near.
I speak clearly to avoid
being left out of the war.
The bridge feels like beautiful shelter
and the fires have just been set.
My girl is fascinating like Venus,
arms outstretched, like a goddess.
My friends are burned on television,
ostracized for their contagious rage,
stoned for their discreet diseases,
grateful to be nowhere.
Poor Sheena, sacrificed at the foot
of her bed, satisfied with the punks
and nothing short of pure tide.
Cheree swallows suicide,
trying to hide her crocodile tears,
with a grin the size of a meteor bath.
A prophet, Lucifer in the flesh,
passes the syringe,
and I smile like venom.
He comments on London's current
claim to anarchy and arson.
I tell him nonchalantly,
"New York is the only place I want to be right now."
He sells me reasoning in the shape of,
"Let me dream if I want to."
Me, I'd just like to be sedated,
so he pops me pills like syntax.
Johnny flashes obscenities at Iggy Pop,
anything to get his attention, cuz despite all
the signs, Rudie just cannot wait.
This whole scene was forecast,
with shadows the size of oceans.
The revolution is being broadcast and
Lennon has been M.I.A. for years.
Waiting for the needle to do its job,
my best friend, Jimmy Jazz, turns to me and exclaims,
"Rock 'N' Roll never looked this easy."
