You hate Justin Bieber. You hate his mopy hair and doe eyes. You hate his soft face. You hate his gangling limbs. You hate his soft voice. You hate his effeminacy. You hate his bland persona. You hate his soft music. You hate above all else his cultural ubiquity, which is to you as mysterious as it is undeserved.
You are not alone. Your peers hate Justin Bieber as much as you do, if not more so. It’s an easy joke, an easy put-down. That little shit. That soft crooning creature. That fucker. You tell your friends that you want to cut that fucker’s throat. You tell your friends that you want to see that fucker raped.
There are two worlds on this earth, just as that famous story of H.G. Wells’ prophesied. There are here nations of soft dull creatures, fat and limp and empty-eyed slack-jawed grazing creatures. And you, you beautiful Morlock, you are wiser. You crawl in underground darkness, pawing through the Stygian murk of basement record stores, sneering up at the ignorant sun in all its debauched glory. What is shone in that light cannot be but flotsam drifting on this populous sea.
Justin Bieber is a sexless child, Katy Parry is a candyfloss whore, One Direction are a pack of chittering simians and Taylor Swift is an absurd punchline. They are all of them nothing but grist for the masses, fodder and sludge and shapeless mass to be passed about until their luster goes out. You see this, and the knowledge fills you with bitterness and rising hatred. Your bile is in your throat. What is this world. Who are these pretenders, these charlatans?
You do not understand. The world has lost all reason, all form. It all goes to the dogs eventually, and the dogs go to wolves.
What is Justin Bieber? A not so unfamiliar a face, dazed smile lurking under shiny mop-top hair and drifting self. You recognize in him faces beloved and full of meaning. He is a mockery of what matters to you. He is a mock imitation of your heroes. He is an insult in his emptiness. He is all that you once loved and cannot any longer understand.
You have grown, and Justin Bieber is not made for you. The world has abandoned you, it will cater to you no longer. Popular music is not for your generation; you’ve aged out of it. You’ve been cast off. You are no longer a child. You are an adult now. You are alone now. You are going to die. Justin Bieber is the avatar of death. Justin Bieber is Kali, is Osiris, is Lucifer, is Hades. Justin Bieber is the grinning skull and the flesh gone slack and gray beneath the dirt. You cannot forgive him for this. You cannot ever stop hating him. His every breath could be stolen from your own mouth. Justin Bieber is killing you with every moment of his ascendancy. In the eye of this world you are irrelevant and disposable. Justin Bieber is proof of your meaninglessness. You have been cast aside and all that remains is the sea. You cling, ever weakening, to the driftwood raft of what martyr you call your own.
* * *
John Lennon stands over the woman. His wife. The mother of his child. He breaths hard. He touches the corner of his mouth, feels the saliva turned thick and gummy there. His fist is clenched at his side. He can hear echoing in his head the screams of a thousand women – girls, just girls – some mindless swarm of needing femininity. He could have anything. Fame is running liquid down his chin. She is bleeding, blood from her lip, blood from her mouth. He sings and the world screams its adulation. In his soft eyes and in his knowing smirk and in his mop-top hair. He knows what it is to be worshiped and the taste of it will not leave his tongue. What is this shrill thing at his feet? This leech at his neck, this vampire. He would beat her to death if he could. And what is stopping him? He raises his fist again and brings it down. What is a person but a thing to be used? Could you imagine a world with no violence, no pain? There is nothing he cannot own.
* * *
Kurt Cobain in a hotel in Italy. Is it Italy? He can’t remember anymore. And what does it matter? He slumps on the floor. Spread before him at the glossy pages of magazines bearing his own face. His beautiful face. He touches the shinning pages, puts his fingers to his own eyes, to his own mouth, to his own tossed blond hair. He hears Francis Bean screaming in the other room. Or is she far from here, back in America maybe? Is he hearing a memory? He stares into his blue eyes and the eyes look back, flat on the magazine page. He always knew that he would be famous one day; there was nothing he had ever wanted with such desperation. To pull himself above the clawing masses. He thought maybe he could leave them behind, but they cling to him still. And now they are all watching him. He wishes he could turn invisible. But what point is any of it, if nobody watches? There is a suicide note on the table by the door. They’ll find it. He picks up the needle and looks at it, looks into it. His body shivers with need. He’s so lonely. His stomach burns. What a fucking joke it all is.