Metal,
punk,
goth,
skin,
rude boy,
rock-a-billy,
nu-jack swing,
garage
and now
“burlesque”
(I suppose).
Whatever.
It’s almost
always ten chicks
rotating their way
through ten
alpha dudes
(as per the
ritualistic observance/
biological imperative
inherent in whatever
scene-specific variation
of the whole money/
muscle/cool equation)
while another
eighty low-status
monkey boys watch
from the side-lines,
grumbling,
grousing,
gawking,
rubbing their crotches,
waiting for a shot
at the “money,”
that, in this squalid,
musky, little
coliseum
of compounded
man-pain,
will, most likely,
never
come.
-Jason Ryberg, 2011
feel like that had a premature ending...
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