Date: 10:42 am  Wed Mar 11, 1998       Number : 300 of 1001
From: Zinnia Kray                      Base   : (Tab) Meyoosic
To  : All                              Refer #: None
Subj: Love Song                        Replies: 1
Stat: Sent                             Origin : 03-10-98 09:54

The Love Song of Alfred J. Prog-Rock   by Mr. Chris Eng (CITR DJ)

The X-Ray is her siren song
my ship cannot resist her long
nearer to my deadly goal, until the black hole
gains control.

....colours to see, like lazers at the Planetarium.
Let's go out through empty, subdivided streets
past antiquated fleets
of luxury sedans in two-car driveways
and neighborhoods accessible only from highways,
streets like Neil Peart lyrics in an epic song:
far too obtuse and long,
that lead you to a perplexing quandry.
Oh, do not ask "why are we here?"
Let's go out and drink cheap beer.

The women mumble yes and no
and talk about the Hawkwind show.

The cigarette smoke slinking about the underground parkade,
the marijuana smoke loitering about the underground parkade,
snuck briefly behind the wheels of a Lexus,
skipped over a large pool of oil,
wrinkled the nose of a security guard
turned back toward you, beginning to creep
and seeing  you hadn't rested all night,
hung once about your lungs and made you sleep.
And indeed, there will be time for the acrid smoke that exits
through your pipe, slinking about the underground parkade,
there will be time to prepare a band for the fans down the
street,
there will be time to sit around and wait 
and time for all the gigs and heavy jams that on a school night
happen much too late,
there will be time for me and time to sift through hundreds of
guitar picks,
and work out difficult difficult Santana licks
before passing out in front of the T.V.

The women mumble yes and no
and talk about the Hawkwind show.

And indeed, there will be time to wonder, 
"do I dare, and do I care?"
Time to descend the basement rec-room stair
with an uneven part in the middle of my hair,
they will say: "Is that some stubble on his chin?"
My azure shirt rumpled from three weeks in the bin,
my denim jacket thin and simple,
accented by a Pink Floyd pin.
They will say: "How that boy reeks of cheap gin!"

Do I dare steal beer money from my mother's purse?
After school there will be time for guitar licks
and cool rock kicks
that I promised to rehearse.
For I have wasted them already, wasted them all,
have wasted the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life in loud rock tunes.
I hear my parents having sex just down the hall,
overtop the Zeppelin in the rumpus room, so
Should i do those shrooms?

And I have known the lyrics already, known them all,
the lyrics that capture you in a trance-like gaze,
and when I am trance-like, sprawling on the floor,
when I am drunk and lying behind the door,
laid out from all that gin,
should I think on Fly By Night in that blurry haze?
And, should I do those shrooms?

And I have known the girls already, known them all,
small leather purse clutched tight in one mighty claw,
possessed of more keychains than you and I ever saw.
Is it their overly backcombed hair that makes me want to stare?
Girls that huddle in the bathroom or cloistered in the mall?
And should I do those shrooms?
And how about that gin?

Shall I say: "I have driven around in a Chevy van
in search of the swarthy man
who sells hash underneath the streetlight,
overcharging us, laughing?"

I should have worked at 7-11 and stolen all their nacho cheese.

And through the afternoon and the evening I sleep so peacefully,
a process spurred by vegetation 
becomes sopor, torpor, or hibernation, 
passed out on the floor in front of the T.V.
Should I, after napping for three hours,
have the strength to get up and shower?
But though I have jammed and practiced, 
jammed and played,
though I have picked until my fingers became tatters,
I'm no Van Halen, and here's the matter:
I have drunk more than my bodyweight in liquor,
and I have seen the girls in my homeroom snicker,
and I knew that I would not get laid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
after the beer, doritos and B.O.C.,
reclining on the couch, some spark between you and me,
would it have been worthwhile
to gather your things up in a pile,
to stare at me like some porcelain doll,
to lead me to some perplexing quandary,
to say to me: "I came to watch your Queensryche tape,
you have an amazing amount of gall."
If one responding to my proposal would say:
"I didn't come here to ball."
That's not what I meant at all.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worthwhile,
after the pizza, the cornerstore, and the cigarettes,
after the cooler, after the Sabbath, after the strobe lights
that make my eyes sore,
did I pass out? I can't be sure.
Even I cannot discern exactly what I mean.
But as if Jethro Tull suddenly flashed their 
tablature on a screen,
would it have been worthwhile if
one rebuttoning a blouse with a dark and somber pall,
and pushing me off the bed should say:
"That is not what I meant at all.
Get your stuff, go sleep in the hall."

No! I am not King Crimson, nor was meant to be.
I'm a stalward bud, one that will do,
to hang at a kegger, smoke a bowl or two,
and force the policy "no swimming in the pool"
while drunk and occasionally obstinate,
jocular, notably companionless, 
full of bravado but sadly desparate,
at times downright libidinous.
Quite often it seems, a fool.

I grow cold, I grow cold.
Dan keeps the windows of his Trans Am unrolled.

Should I wear a ponytail?
I wish I hadn't lost that brush.
I'll wear an Alan Parsons cap and deny I am a lush.
I hear my loutish beer mates singing Styx and Rush,
I think they are singing to me.

I have seen them riding by on BMX bikes,
running their fingers through feathered hair blown back,
gingerly removing smokes from the pockets of their mac.
We have too long cruised the biways of the city,
prowling in Camaros coloured orange and brown,
till we get lost,
driving to a Yes show
in another town.