August 16, 2012 § 8 Comments

He was always 10% late
and I never got a discount.

Swooping in like the sea
had almost forgotten high tide

waves of studded leather
Starbucks and smoke

wafting from lips lined
with sin and nicotine

he on an “axe” and an amp, and me

on my pink

Lanky rocker – whose headbanging
black hair had retired

before his tour bus dreams.
Quite a pair – him and me

knee to knee in a studio
too small for the smell of stale gigs

that seemed to seep from his case
or his skin

(really what difference
was there to him

and his gangly
mic-stand skeleton?)


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§ 8 Responses to #160

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You are currently reading #160 at Authored Angioplasty.


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