The Lyricist and his Rock Star
Published in McSweeney's Internet Tendency
I'm eating moussaka at the Greek's
when you step in for smokes with that cat
who comports as your superego.
On the jukebox an a cappella
version of "Only You" makes me woozy-
or is it the stale ouzo? Less and less my waitress whispers, but more and more
I toss poison darts at that geek
who stares at me from my spoon-boozy
and hung by horny toes, like a fruit bat.
Why sad? Wasn't our love a priori?
Like a socialist on Super Tuesday, I was forgone-like a superfecta
ticket at Suffolk Downs, worth less and less
furlong by furlong. Your A&R
team took one look at me and cried, "Eek!"
I'm the type who Scrabbles Q with qat.
I'm the stripe who fills songs with doozy idioms where beggars are choosy
and love is hallowed as a superbug.
I look away and recall Angkor Wat,
where the video for "More & More"
was filmed. I sat under a sacred teak
rewriting beats while you went deux with that creep sitcom actor, that A-list
hack who speaks like he fucks-like an Uzi-
rat-a-ta-ta. He called me word freak
when I verbalized in polysemous polysyllables and supercomputer
when I did tips in my head-less and less
as I ate, by then, mostly solo-the rat's gnat
or edo-mala to his la mode.
You text messed the end to our amore and more
powwow to you and all that are newsy!
Don't bah for me, I have my superglue
and weekly enemas with Irish leeks. Now I write, more or less, for an oozy
Osaka band that sounds like gats gogo-
a supergroup. Wait 'til you hear our squeak.