High On Rebellion

what i feel when i'm playing guitar
 is completely cold and crazy,
 like i don't owe nobody nothing
 and it's just a test just to see
 how far i can relax
 into the cold wave of a note.
 when everything hits just right (just and right)
 the note of nobility can go on forever.
 i never tire of the solitary E
 and i trust my guitar
 and i don't care about anything.
 sometimes i feel like i've broken through
 and i'm free and i could dig into eternity
 into eternity riding the wave
 and realm of the E.
 sometimes it's useless.
 here i am struggling and filled with dread
 afraid that i'll never squeeze enough
 graphite from my damaged cranium
 to inspire or asphyxiate any eyes
 grazing like hungry cows across the stage or page.
 inside of me i'm crazy i'm just crazy.
 inside i must continue.
 i see her, my stiff muse,
 jutting around round round
 round like a broken speeding statue.
 the colonial year is dead
 and the greeks too are finished.
 the face of alexander remains not only solely
 due to sculpture but through the power and foresight
 and magnetism of alexander himself.
 the artist must maintain his swagger.
 he must he must he must be intoxicated
 by ritual as well as result.
 look at me i am laughing.
 i am laughing.
 i am lapping cocaine from the hard brown palm
 of the bouncer. and i trust my guitar.
 therefore we black out together.
 therefore i would run through scum.
 and scum is just ahead, ah we see it,
 but we just laugh.
 we're ascending through the hollow mountain.
 we are peeking.
 we are laughing.
 we are kneeling.
 we are laughing.
 we are radiating at last.
 this rebellion is just a gas
 our gas a gas that we pass.