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Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Musically youthy

oily, seedy provocation relents
for the tongue in groove machine thing
and only then with a stutter-step
of recognition.

that's how lived-in arias are born
and punkily careful recklessness
dies. this ain't new york or l.a.
being painted in thick, toxic strokes.

the romantic images are better,
and t-shirt-ready:
an idol pounding back another
party cup, forehead bleeding,

getting buried in the streets
among hangers-on, junkies,
girlfriends, groupies,
confused cabbies, bored cops.

but before that did-up death croak,
he carefully sculpted his hair
behind stage, in the glass
of a pinball machine.

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