DISSENTING NOTE TO SELF

Things are as simple as this:

 there are the Dickinsons and the Wheeler Wilcoxs just like there are the Morrisseys and the Bonos, the wild flowers and the ornamental grass.

There are poets and boring poets, songwriters and boring songwriters.

There is a never ending harmless army of mediocre writers causing no trouble to the consciousness of your average petty bourgeois, and that's fine. I accept that.

I do not expect a William Blake or a Syd Barret to materialise and enter the scene every other hour and i am keenly aware that they dreamingly belong to the unfathomable world of one off geniuses, but (there is always a but if you're an independent thinker) it does not prevent my whole self from hoping and longing for an out of the ordinary read or a more compelling listen, there is a light that never goes out indeed.

The controversy is nurtured by the fact that the majority of these circles circulators of the modern arts are ,honestly speaking, quite good at what they do.

Therefore i wont call them useless, but simply negligible as they can actually write a song (Bono used to write fairly good pop songs in fact), and they can definitely compose a decent poem at times (Wheeler Wilcox's point of view is banal and circumscribed to clear manifest statements but she could at least practice on poetry).

The difference is they really never told me anything i didn't know already.

Now the question spontaneously generates itself : 

DID WE REALLY NEED A BONO VOX?

All i can say is WE DAMN NEEDED A MORRISSEY INSTEAD.

We will always be in need of someone so daring as to seep through the tangles of obvious and make us see things under a different light.

This legion of Lion-Writers are the ones who make the difference and elevates the human spirit although they didn't invent anything new.

The things they talk about were already there; its just we couldn't see them.

We are touched by their eyeopening way of seeing and suddenly our blinkers crumble away and we finally find ourselves violently awaken by the beauty of the simple things, or by their tragic epilogue.

Tell me something i don't know, Poet... or rather keep silent.