a jar of nutella

Sex in Your Violence


Rock stars are sexy by definition. Damaged demi-gods with no saintly attributes. Everything they do acquires an astigmatic allure. Were you always this damn cool? I think as I watch you knock beer bottles off the coffee table onto the floor, clearing off a spot to lay the next lines. It’s one of those chicken-or-egg dilemmas I want to get fucked up enough to not give a shit about.

You are a rock star, or you were. Perhaps people don’t picture you as such, anymore, but you still carry that certain swagger, a cautiously curated personal pastiche of everything everybody’s ever considered or otherwise venerated as cool. Your band’s music may not be as popular as it once was, but your own cult of personality has been carefully cultivated and people still feel your force even if the popular power behind it dissipated long ago. There’s something romantic about it — something beautiful in the way you throw a bottle against the wall that tends to moisten panties more often than it shatters anything other than glass, and you fucking know it. There’s sex in your violence, the sort so strong it has its own gravitational pull.

You don’t believe they’re dead. Not in the way people say they “can’t believe” something as some sort of inarticulate stand-in to express shock. You literally don’t believe it. You’ll tell anyone who’ll listen if you’re in the mood to talk and someone starts playing their music. Elvis … Kurt Cobain … Jim Morrison. You’ll poke your fingers through the holes and wear the Swiss-cheese public accounts like gloves. You’ve become accustomed to people agreeing with you without bothering to research whatever it is you’re talking about, so you just talk, complacent if not content.

At one point, you took care to separate the “real” and the “personal” — your “private” life — from the public. But now there’s no distinction between the two. There is no black and white; no “mine” and “yours”, only some mythical persona, some beautiful creation that will never die. And this, my dear, is why you don’t believe they’re dead — because if they can die, then so can you.

Gravity is the weakest force.