Song of songs – excerpt 167-171- work in progress

167
The group, if we can label
The assemblage as such
Could be divided in two parts
The showmen, who desired
To make a living from their songs
Sung to entertain
While the other side, the artists
Sang simply to be heard
To pleasure themselves
With their voices
Never thinking to pander
Never selecting for reasons
Beyond singing
What they desired to sing
Neither group understanding
Or forgiving the other
For their misapplied perspective
I could more easily appreciate
The artists than the shills
When we feel guilty for something
Innocently done, the borderlines win
I made a reservation, don’t be slow
You are my religion
Gary took the stage, wavering
Slightly absorbing the spotlight
Transmogrifying with each step
With each moment into
The rock star, ready to wail

168
Boy becomes man to the rhythm
Of a blossoming time, the solid
Bass beats intoning the steady steps
Forward, engaging troubles
Taking on the world, in power chords
Strummed hard and paused
Before a girlish whining wail
The hallmark of heavy metal’s birth
Crying wantonly into the night
“Woman!”
Emptying his soul in imitation
Of a lasting rebellion, cherishing
The joys of destructive forces
In the endless demand of creation
Responsibility taking hold of his soul
Squeezing the life out of the young man
Pushing him into the desert leading
Inevitably toward an open grave
Leeching his spirit, so prized in youth
Out of his veins, leaving him while
Empty of the fire that urged
Him onto the stage, guitar
Firmly in hand, striking terror
Into passivity with a ferocious Gm
Bellowing his angst in low roles
Growling and screaming angrily
Chasing away the mendacity
The mediocrity that soon engulfs
Til human voices wake us and we drown

169
Encapsulating the romantic ideals
The artist as hero, self-expressed
Simultaneous stream
Standing alone in the spotlight
The wind blowing long hair
Though of hair, Gary had little
A loose white shirt, billowing
In a heady fore wind
Except Gary wore a t-shirt
The romance hero slash pirate
Costume was mine, not Gary’s
Shyly greeting the crowd
Distracted by the dramatic
Flows from crowd to moving
Crowd, a late century metal
Ballad taken line by line
Methodical, deliberate
Inexorable
Watching Gary was tedium
Standing immobile, focused
Stock still, hand on the mike
Looking out into nowhere
Grasping his vision of stern
Romantic visions, a hero
Daring to sing these hammered
Themes, the simple gnawing
Of his reality clashing hard
With his imagination

170
Pretty is nothing compared to interesting
I will to offend with vulgar words
No one looks as good as you
Her innocent eyes, and by innocent
I mean stupid, gaze lovingly
At the feckless hero, isolated
By the spotlight as he takes the stage
Leering emptily at an inattentive crowd
Except for her, for Penny, staring
Lovingly to embrace his flowing talent
That only she can hear
Drinking in the emotion of his song
In huge loving gulps, proud to be
Associated in the moment with his power
Borrowed, in part, at least, from
The aging rock bands of yesteryear
The terror of a frenzied drummer
The hammer blows of a thudding bass
Walking in a funky counter-point
Harmonies of the guitar strum
The blasts of lung filled horns
The sultry sloppy surrender
Of a low and luscious saxophone
The insistent voice of a lead guitar
Fueled by feedback, distortion, reverb
To sing in piercing, sliding notes
The concerto of a modern age
The noise quartet of rebellion
As she short haired youth wails

171
Seeing himself as no one
Else could, excepting perhaps
Heather, who lacked any skill
At all in singing, so that Gary’s
Feeble attempts seemed, to her
A work of pure genius
Inspired
Looking at her lover, musician
Romantic hero, mount the stage
Hold attention, slaughter foes
Raise the roof, empty his soul
Love burst forth as she gazed
At mediocrity transformed
By her into a musical god
Working steadily through
Refrains the chorus
Measure by measure
Tone by tone
Steadily working through
Line by line
Note by note
Air guitar for the solo
Ready to work a wedding
For the younger folk
The rest of the shills
Paid him no mind
For the rock and roll cover band
Was no competition
For the lounge singer set

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in fiction, literature, novels, personal, poetry, reading, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

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