Bill Tremblay’s blog

Making laws against joy is big money, boy.  
I’m going to squeeze you down to a line the width of a needle track on vinyl.
Copyright will make it illegal to compete with us, make legal the final acquisitions, energy with wants, needs that we create. You will swivel your hips.
Millions will worship their freedom and  lust for the dream of complete satisfaction,
yet your  face will beam pure innocence.  
That’s why we must cultivate morality.
Everything that’s a diversion, a “guilty pleasure,” must be edited to get your groans
on the master. We edit behavior and we edit language.
This isn’t sex, boy, it’s transformation, it’s charisma!
And through words thought, feeling, the way a word gets wound like a moth’s cocoon into opaque letter forms beyond which it is possible to imagine
nothing except certain four-letter words, names and deeds of bodies and their corruption.  We encourage the more ambitious to believe that your words dwell in
separate dimensions that don’t stink so that lyrics do not claim  truth in our world,
the one where words, will, power, do refer and are used to organize things and people into workforces that get done what we want done.
Of course the hirelings complain, but they have sold their agency for dandelion fluff
and don’t want to go back to words as letting light through;
the scrolls upon which these scribes keep the record of our executed plans
would be more than they could handle if they had to be handled as real.
We also put a crimp on states of being such as sex whether by DNA
or some epigenetic shock that burns a body this way or that
like those hips of yours, boy.
There’s a fortune to be made in bottling what you DNA doled out to you.
I wish I had words that  were  even more abstract than the ones we already have
so as  to point with the longest stick at the putrefying remains.
See what we’re up against here?
Our eyes are open to cosmic horizons and extending our domains,
and there’s no word extant to fold in the vowels of that  
aspiration with the webbing to make things one, and, finally, and forever, still,
in the sense that they stay where we put them.
Oh, how shall they ever possess the dream you make happen in your
“luuuv me tender, luuuv me true”except that we  have sacred fetishes for sale of you,
recordings, photos, you have no idea.
I will turn you into a manageable cult, a  duck-tailed Dionysus
with killer eyes. Promise everything. Now, boy, we’ll let them get close enough
to sniff your musk. How about wiping your sweat on scarves and flinging them
among the ladies? Yet never quite let the whole she-wolf out
or we’ll have a Devil of a time rounding them back up.
I predict that so many copies will emerge from the womb of your scarves
that after you’re used up all over America people will claim to see you
at drug stores, roadside motels, drive-in movies.
Welcome to immortality, son!