Tryv (Failed parenthetical.)

Load, dammit! Load!
I don't want to do my laundry.
I can't take the stairs.
I can't take my hair.
There's too much oil over
and under everything.

I want a cherry bomb
in my vagus nerve.
I want to stop listening to Wilco.
Not because of the words,
But because what they mean.
I said, "I guess Contradictions
are not always good."
But that was just me being
Contrarian. King Mary,
The Bloody Faerie.
The Golden Compass
And Wilco do not have
That much in opposition.
Only, I feel.
And pop music is the
decomposition.

I can't and won't listen to the Black Keys or this:

(Have I failed at being pretentious, worldly, satirical? Or am I, in my sincerity, awesome at it? Need some sleep. Failed parenthetical.)

non-Edit.
Is there a true counter culture still in America? we asked. It's too easy to, too prescribed to be weird. Fuck a safe space. Freaks are supposed to have to find their way, not have it fed to them just like every other toilet swirl of a group.

(okay, so I actually watched a small portion of that Amanda Palmer. I don't hate it. Luckily, I don't love it, either. It occurred to me, it's something I'd have thought was cool and worth doing a few years ago. I don't know. What am I left with? Depressives and Kanye West? Redheads? Yeah, redheads...)