greater sophistication

Lyotard forewarns against the grammar of misery within a displaced nostalgia for a golden age of rampant, unhinged creativity, an age never occuring, never occured. To think that, reflecting back on this vacant history of glory, in popular music
words none've not uttered first, last, between the crunk rock riffs culled from old stooges tapes and clatterings of joy division recycled as here-is-now-up-and-coming golden idle mircrophone wrangler pretty lips. Pretty voice, oblivious whine. Not even reflecting to B.C., to 1960 through, to the 1920's, the hours of bumbling witchery of manic art burdens lofted through poorhouse doors, dishing a fix, meddling craps, money owed money owned money flown money, bumbling witchery. Cast on call for big bands, a mistake and out of work, painters courting lord duke's dining halls and enteryways for mere meals amounting addictions. Today's indie band is a flyer on a bustop covered up by an ad for a used fender rhodes. A half handle on a food service supervising position compensating the printing costs. No one asking to hear My Blue Heaven, Texas Rose. The nostalgia for counting trimmings of newspaper loyalty on a bankrupt bench in the inspiration parkway, Lyotard, I've never heard of you, I do not remember you, your Editorial killed half the Beatles and culture is moving forward. Emo kids in the wisened predicate, write off 20 years ago, write off 10 years ago, write off this year even, as lithographs in basement file cabinets, as LPs on the wall of a burning radio station, Radio Alice, tears over-dramatically spawned whistles and catcalls from the landscapers locking the shed of media tools. Do you remember how this yard looked 40 years ago? There were a lot less weeds, but it was a lot harded to walk through.

Slightly limping, the names that spell solo guitar improvisation for three voices XVI