Shove
Red is center stage again. Hours spent juxtaposing
the Dionysian and Apollonian and lining up the lyric
with the rhythm of my right hand are all a waste
once the bass comes in. With the fiery grace of a drunk
and stoned Irishman he beats and plucks his poor P Bass
like he is simultaneously bludgeoning a dead chicken
and preparing it for dinner.
Chuck plays perfect fifths over my diminished chords
because tritones are too pretentious for his taste.
Cal bitches in the background about the other band.
Their drummer has dented his new heads with dead-stick.
I want to turn off Cal’s mic. I want to turn off Cal’s voice.
I want to go back to my basement apartment and paint.
Fuck the band. Fuck the crowd. Fuck the Misfits,
the Dead Kennedys, and the teen punk wannabes
smoking stolen cigarettes and talking shit about their parents.
We go out back and light a fag. Red says emo kids
are gay. In two months he’ll dye his hair black
and paste a lock over his face.
