A wallflower’s perception of the anxiety-and-hope combustion-engine known as “live music”.
atom and ether
the patrons here are soft-spoken bards a far trip from home
in the twilight humming of lights,
in this painfully slow showcase of pride and pity,
they can’t hide under the neon red cover of nightmare fueled prose.
their burning eyes tell of fire-branded, grass-stained hopes.
all the ticking pipe bombs of heart-shorn analysts
slide from the streets to slow-drawled songs in saloons.
drifters in the tavern, a Kid with a crooked smirk,
that Kid drinking at the bar on an old stool
with a poised posture for his friends and lovers
the handsome rake of light and songs,
sitting gracefully twining his legs,
sitting at the bar, smiling with wide unguarded eyes,
sitting and half-daring
to hunt the cricket sawing a star in time
he pulls down a bright white sunbeam,
wended and trapped with rhythmic chills.
his pallid lust slays as the cold slow waves of smoke carry –
the ether of his mouth and fingers are fatal
within one second of his smile.
a haze of ether steeps and falls cross-wise
on the gilded beer cans, stacks of papers;
steeps and falls cross-wise for twenty dollars,
steeps and dies with a slip of time, a cap of lies,
on sheets of scribbled set-lists and unanswered prayers.
it’s all a game to them, Kid, to land on the end goal:
we all weave a loom in time forever, of truth and pain.
drifters in the barroom, we go up this road forever.
fame only tells of atomic hell.
and on Sunday, something different.