The Last Gig

Bruises, bright lights, stale cigarette smoke, welcome to the gig

I stand in the heat of the moment
running ice-cubes on my forehead
the heat gushing, waiting to perform.
I make my slow agitated way to the concrete platform,
a willing sacrifice in a black scarf.
Strings tighten and chords spur out in random signatures
I wrestle the heavy guitar over my pelvis
and feel the beat in my belly.
Heart pounding, black-out-time.

I glare into the faceless crowd
It appears like the cast of star trek,
Purple hair, red tights, toni and guy haircuts galore
Dead eye stares
Will they soak it up, do they ever?
Fear, heartless thank you, burning desire
And a stale smell of a small town
Would they want to change or continue being:
Analysts, PA’s, Bankers, Safe jobs in I.T.
blonde, breasts, a guitar
and no apologies.

I pause,
and give them my crooked rose;
‘If you wanna get ahead, put on your tight blouse’
and smear outside the lines of your lips with red paint.
Tasty.
I eat up their looks of confusion
as I sweat, judder and smash anything.
‘Why isn’t he pretty enough’?
Never.

Falling to my knees,
I bash out tuneless, noise
and become open mouth, bruises hidden among whining screams
smothering them with my beautiful instrument.