Fixed gear bikes
like horses tied to posts outside the saloon
into the queue
longshoreman like impostors flushing out a pit
in a living room place
bike messengers going postal
in a gallery space.
Guitarist fluttering lids like epilepsy scars
scratching at sounds and smashed chords with bad math.
Singer slashes nodes to ribbons
wraps it in a bow
in group blues in gang sing
into skipped record sounds copter crashing off walls of the fjord.
no one is bored.
Wait for the shatter of appreciative gaps coughs then claps then
acid gargling ball bearing chewing
blood fucking curdling
polyrhythmic chaos spewing at repetitive mind melding RPM
songs like smart bombs spray the dumbed down.
now this is a punk town.
Radio interferes through the bleeding amps
bobbing hoods like pistons churning
satan sent to his bed for lying
head and horns down crying on his star wars sheets
black hoods hip checking gnashing teeth to beats .
bumping beards clanging sweat logged bells,
channeling heaven as sound shards ricochet into reading glasses.
read the sermon skip the masses.
Everyone looks like Bluto, Paul Bunyan or a hybrid of both
no giving peace a chance in the pit
sure to get a piece of it.
Feel the love , raise yourself down to the ring
a slow bleed is rising under tattooed skin, and a bruise is
ridden hard towards the encore thing.
Carabiner key metronomes sway from a forest of moving jeans
like stage compasses vibrating true north
to the front line.
Spine shifts like rivets burning
singer spits up splinters
embracing larangytical delivery.
This is the juice to make them dance their Dickies off
strain soy into their tea
forgive their dads.
A chain gang coup de tat
sledgehammer bass chords levitating rocks,
stage buckshot pinning shoulders back
singer plays warden
hitting decks and bailing for exits.