I am wondering how rock’n’roll
this Brummie rock’n’roll bar is
when the barman passes me
my bottle of apple and mango J2O
and moves on to the next punter
without such much as a whisper
of the word ‘glass’.
Ah, that rock’n’roll.
As I ponder what might have happened
had I ordered a Jack Daniel’s,
I watch the first in a triumvirate
of hardcore beatdown bands
whose earnest endeavour
it is to redefine the word loud.
The new loud leaves eleven stranded
in a mosh pit with vaporised ear drums,
as it travels towards the outer reaches
of infinity.
The audience-mob responds
by beating to a pulp
the spaces in between them (mainly).
Blurry, amphetamine, windmill arms flail,
like a 1984 Morrissey on fast forward,
and a small army of boots stamp
on what I am convinced
must be some form of fire,
invisible to my tired, middle-aged eyes.
Courtesy of a text from an old band mate,
my mind rewinds to the brief rock’n’roll adventures
of my own youth.
Ah, how charmingly jejune we were
back in the day
when we tried to conjure up
such a thing as melody
and drank whisky
from a bottle.
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