I’ve been too cautious about giving off my scent, I think
too cautious about avoiding the Scene
instead of throwing gasoline on its funeral fire
they still think I’m one of them
Silly me.
Absence makes my heart grow colder but they don’t notice.
silence is assent, correct?
Say nothing again, walk, change my strings.
And murmur a little accidental honesty, a little blindside truth in passing.
How dare I.
And always their assumptions of direct personal insult instead of dispassionate general observation.
How dare I.
I’m not cool enough any more. Too red for the electr(on)ic blues, now that my notes are picked instead of programmed.
I’m not fool enough any more. Too well-read for the hivemind.
You make your sounds with your fingers? How quaint.
Next you will say words should rhyme and have meaning.
Next you will say rhythms should ebb and flow and moments should hang in the air rather than wither beneath the 4/4 jackboot on its throat.
Next you will say we should try harder to be human.
Humans have scents and we don’t trust your perfume, be it coconut or cinnamon that you smear on your skin for your Thunders wannabe to taste.
Silly me. How dare I.
