The Literary Blues
The literary blues ain’t what it used to be.
The strings and strums of the blues writers seem blunted, faked by too many plaintive emo wails of the corporate chain-gang. Is it real? Is it true? Does it matter?
Literary blues wasn’t meant be like this. The Truth now is nothing but corporate fork-tongued double speak. Reality is based on gate-keepers greedy to keep their prerogatives, their territory safe.
The clichéd fat cats are real as well, sitting in their expansive one-room corner offices and laughing their asses while a million monkey-drones are typing out in PCs and Macs the next literary blues grand prize winner—sponsored, of course, by the same fat cats.
So what’s it going to be, writer-monkey boy? Your words or your balls?