Lou Reed
There were more sides to him
than
that. No surprise there. The crystal
math. The high-watered high.
My cousin, Jonny, treated
him
not like a god. But as God.
The headbreak of bleached
hair,
pretty wasted and fantastic.
It’s a magic trick, the
embracing
of sensual ambiguousness,
the description of
effortlessness
and the highjacking of
thinking
about cutting decks,
destroying
journalists, hitting me as
much
as you want, but I don’t
love you
any less. A cocky kid with wrinkles
and the wise investment of
the power
of all great music. Every time
the glam thing comes up, I
tug
what has already been seen
with Warhol; the ‘70s were a
chance
for Adam and Eve to change
hands, be anything, lay
charms,
follow up with disturbing
concept
albums. Berlin.
The flips and appetites
for narcotics. The storefront.
And Jonny rushes into the
room,
completely consumed by pot
and nervous determination
to turn up the volume to a
level
where the police will become
clowns. The state of mind
of advantage. The shrinks will not
be happy with my contact
buzz.
But, wow, what an ability to
wake
up the wacking-off world
with its
confetti of confusion, the
cul-de-sac
of education and instead a
new pink
bow ingesting us. Do you know
what I mean? How much Lou
can affect you? How much is going
on in a mind? His work truck of rock.Short bio: Ron Riekki wrote the novel U.P. and edited The Way North (Wayne State University Press, http://wsupress.wayne.
No comments:
Post a Comment