A cold, jaded little monkey I was. But now, often, in awe. Often heated almost to boil! Call me a fan. Color me otaku, obsessed and yet, resistant. Unbelieving, incredulous!
This is Mel the monkey and she rocks so very hard. Every single time, in a bar, in a pizza shop, she’ll rock you right to the depths anywhere. From swamp to mountain top, with sticks on a drum or with her electric piano.
How does one so close to me, so… so monkey climb that mountain of the mind made of fear? To get up atop a soapbox, cover it in machines that make noise. To look down upon a multitude, take what they yearn for and feed it back to them
Where does it come from, the fire, the heat of thought that melts the walls of a perfectly safe building? When will it come back, that land once known before this monkey climbed atop a soapbox and rocked so hard?
I mean, would you look at where she comes from? As an artist I have -no- armor to protect against grooves of this magnitude.
An appreciated mystery worth preserving. Performance, to be true. All alone, though? A one monkey show? Nay. For every attention that’s captured rapt becomes a pillar to the source of the blaze.
All I ever seem to feel is hot wind when I stare down fate. Then I look and I listen and I have faith that her fire will stay lit.