Broadway Musical

Rushing love is as filthy as writing a speed musical on a train.
In twenty minutes.
Sketching a lifeline on a chalky sidewalk, political or nay,
evident enough so that any child can feel the revoloution
to feel riotously opressed
and real pissed about it
And that warm feeling
that you sparked something good.
I\'m a little sheepish about it, myself.
So don\'t shuffle away just yet.
\"I love you.\"
Don\'t we all love to say it,
or a variant of it,
in our heads to an imaginary standard.
Maybe in this picture show
you are blinking back tears of a vaguely blinding happiness.
\"I\'m so in love right now!\"
I\'m so in love right now.
I wish.

Through the highs and lows of a fragile time,
there is no one more to wish for;
and nothing.
One wishes desperately to scream in an impassioned
impowered form of art.
But there\'s too many people around.
And by this time, you might as well be wearing a beret.
\'Cause we\'re such beatniks,
you and I.
That\'s all that art feels right now.

Wrapping up the feelings and impulses of some tired chemical combo,
here it goes.

In everyone\'s perfect world,
a girl has perfect hair
and everyone a perfect voice.
Their song is each commercially appealing,
Universal,
somehow.
Every girl finds a mirrored boy
with really bad \"cool\" hair.
Always bleached or short with little gelled spikes.
And with their perfect voices,
no-run mascara for times of feeling low,
generic clothing,
and a whole lot of love,
they inevitabley make it through in a Broadway fashion.

Wow. That was really, really bad, wasn\'t it?