by G.M.H. Thompson
Nose rings, studded leather, tattooed arms— : they always hung out
at that bar that flew performers in from Broadway, New York,
a fairy-tale realm that would probably escort them out
for sneaking in without paying & for being dirty,
& they would scream obscenities & incoherent rants
about how musicals are a capitalist construct,
but they never mention communism to their dealer,
unless they don’t have the money, which is most of the time.
The bar tender, patron saint of the city’s restaurant staff,
would let them play on the stage late, when the owner had left,
& they all sounded the same— : shouted vocals, never sung,
with clichéd blues licks on distorted acoustic guitar,
like Tom Waits frankensteined to Bob Dylan in a nightmare,
but they all dreamed they were Kurt Cobain reincarnated.
© 2024 G.M.H. Thompson All rights reserved.
Click or tap here to see G.M.H. Thompson’s profile.
Use the “Leave a Comment” form below to submit comments on this piece.
This poem blows my mind. Wow. The audio brings it to another level. Love this. If only more poetry was like this. Bluesy, gritty, powerful. It’s hip and modern and nostalgic all at the same time.