He never said much. He was always trying new fashions of dejection;

supression - repression and depression. Was all the rage back then, to

rage and shake and move and fake and pretend to make something

similar to 'fighting the man' through garage rock'n'roll, late nights and

never eating your dinner. Rock stars were slim and thin and thrash and

smash and trash was out and everything was 'in' and new and

through this he found some kind of meaning, meek yet succinct, in

tearing the seaming; seeming however estranged - pariah

unworthy; although it was what he sought and fought and strived

with a passionate fury for - to be worthless and reduce his impact

and extend his impact and detract and retract and expand;

command some respect and never leave room to breathe. He

always saw himself in mirror-image, a devisage which was flawed,

the core of which was indistinct to him back then in the way back

when. He wrote lyrics after rhetoric absurd, discordant chord and

unspoken word, finding in this a release of sorts - in short, a

channel for his emotion in violent motion to pen on paper and didn't

find til' later; this was poetry. At first not freeform, not abstract, he

thought it would somehow .detract. from rhyme and beat and time.

Although rythym was a sustenance scarce left wanting; it devolved

and evolved to soul-heart bleeding - release and runnel and

godstroke funnel for all his pointless rage and love and somehow

something a little more or less than meaning. So now he writes, and

writes double-choke and full throttle for nothing but a whispered

word; absurd though it seems, it means so much more than Keats.