Sometimes it seems as though my life holds no greater pleasure than listening to someone basterdize one of your songs.
Those darling awkward children of yours that needed far more coaxing than any of the slappers who’d slink in and out of whatever bed you were inhabiting at the time. How nice of those girls to try and take your mind off whatever private torment it was that was responsible for the brooding look of yours. The one you would have trademarked if you could have.
The one I’d sometimes catch you refining in reflective surfaces – any old one would do, didn’t matter if it was a picture frame holding a masterpiece, it would be your own face shining on the glass that would captivate you. You were probably secretly ecstatic about the advent of CDs despite your posturing to the contrary – just another shining repository for your limited yet much lauded talents.
You’ll never have any idea how much I personally enjoy the mangled chords of your babies and sickly voiced renderings of the lyrics I used to find scribbled and strewn around the house in fragments like poor bleating sheep separated from the flock. People used to joke that I’d have heard a sneak preview every time you went for a morning shower – but they really should have known that you are far too serious an artist to have been capable of cheapening the lyrical process in such a way. You believed that your songs were not the fodder for morning ablutions. You believed they were transcendental.
Nothing is quite like the thrill I get when I imagine the concerted rictus of your smile when the latest brain dead starlet reaches to the bottom of that construct she thinks is a soul and belts out one of your best with such carefully wrought sincerity.
I’ve bought all of the singles you know. The ultra thin jewel cases are hidden in a small stack that slides and threatens to tip every time I open the drawer. Was this the kind of iconicity you dreamed of? Careful what you wish for mister, selling your soul turns out to be far less glamorous than you might have thought.
And I used to be convinced that the most I could hope for was that you would blur into obscurity and that I’d only have to deal with reminders every now and then rather than what seemed like every minute of every fucking day. I longed for the time when I could fume and mourn over something the way the women around me were able to. Never did I think that the Christmas bargain bin would yield such delights for me.
I couldn’t have planned a sweeter revenge, no I never could have achieved one, because how could I ever compete with, or affect, the only thing that could get close to your heart? No, I had to let the world do it for me. I had to let the march of time drown your genius in the same way it engulfed the young girl you once swore you’d die for. The girl survived though, even though you couldn’t see her any more, or didn’t bother looking for. I find her again whenever your songs come on the radio and I begin to dance and laugh as my heart soars with childish glee. I like to sing along and when I do I wonder if you can’t help yourself from doing the same.