Hyacinth House

Why did you throw the Jack of Hearts away? Why did you throw the Jack of Hearts away? I'm Jack's smirking revenge, I'm his fucking broken heart. Jack is a son of a gun, owes me money and rock'n roll, and you know you don't fuck with one's rock'n roll. If you ever ask me to shout my soul away, rock'n roll is just right for such. When we try to break the meaning, though, who will ever understand wholy the rock'n roll? Rocks rolling down the hill, Rocking rolls over the hill (and far away). Rolling stones tripping old ladies and crashing cars, castles and dreams. I can't seem to find the right lie in my quest to describe rock'n roll. Shall I describe this feeling as rejection, joy, rebellion, pleasure, lazyness or ecstasy? Shall I just shut the fuck up and wait for the greatest solo in the world? Or just pay a listen to the good golden old silence that crawls our most favorite songs? I surely can't say that rock'n roll is music. I can't say it's not. I can't talk about rock'n roll, I can't talk about rock'n roll, and that is a double-rule nobody should break, but my fingers and teeth bleed my eyebrows as I lay down, with all the love in the world. No, that's not all we need. Fuck love, it means shit when you realize you still live inside your body. It may feel good to see your body on the edge of another body, and scream and groan and make the sweat drip out of everybody, and it surely does feel good to be completed by meaning. Fuck it. Rock it. All and all we're just a grave for unknown soldiers, nested in our hallow shoulders. We die, we dye. However, love is a good thing. I can surely say that love is lazyness. Lazyness is the extreme state of comfort you can ever feel. And nothing will ever compare to the slightest feeling of being lazy to something. That's what we should call love, moments of extreme comfort, not flowers. Try to describe rock'n roll, I can bet all my love you'll fail.