I finally had a room all to my own. I wanted to write a poem and I figured i'd put in Metal Machine Music as a soundtrack to forcefully vomit some stanzas as if I was a literary bulimic. However, I was constipated, battered and molested by the album. I had listened to the album before but it was background music as I lay in a strange bed, young, drug addicted, hypnotized by persuasive thoughts of shoplifting and hungry. But when the "music" began the other evening I was pink, pants down exposed. Metal Machine Music isn't an album someone can "like". Anyone who says they do is a fucking liar. But on a somewhat contradictory note, anyone who doesn't recognize it as an avantgarde, symphonic, cacophony minuet masterpiece is a fucking mongoloid.
The sounds preserved on the record consist entirely of feedback. If you listen you can hear beautiful, beautiful, BEAUTIFUL arpeggios and metal crescendos and mercury whispers. I closed my eyes and waited to see what images and emotions the sounds evoked. I saw a tree growing very, very old and nobody realizing that trees lead miserable lives as men do and are plagued by madness, starvation, greed, agony and love too. I saw someone awaken from a dream to find that everything turned to static and he was told that he would live forever and ever and watch everyone around him die and it would continue until he learned to meditate completely and honestly and disregard the insanity and find true love within himself admist the chaos. i saw a black and gray image of my father standing alone along the ocean looking down, pensive, broken, vulnerable. and the waves. the waves. then i paused the cd and went outside to smoke a cigarette.
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