Away We Go.

First off, it was Alexi Murdoch.
That's who sang every song
to the driving scenes, and
drove the scenes to unrepentant
romance, but without triteness,
nix the sogginess of the heart,
only the warm and serious,
but not so serious to drag,
but perfectly tender and good
in its message delivering,
the romance that romcoms
try so hard to manufacture,
but only create a sick parody of,
with a laugh track
and roll credits.

A syrupy house built with toothpicks,
a gently silly example, overshadowed
by the feeling behind it, bursting out,
each word seems triumphant,
a victory of expression of what it is,
that fickle, often cynically scorned
intemperate monster we seem to miss
when it leaves us.
How does it enter us?
Was it there from the start?
Is it romcoms and roms
and the immense bulk of
the cult of media over our heads
that deeply imbues us with
standardized madness,
that fetishizes love, even more than
violence?
And they're linked and primal,
and sometimes base and shallow,
and often glorious and sublime,
and one was primordially essential
and one was not,
and now one is essential
for our existence,
and the other, similarly,
is not.