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A hyperactive bearded Ray,

guitar slung low on hips,

sexily agitated

by that razorblade pelvis.

Oh what I’d give for nights like this,

Rockpalast Essen 1982.


Skin sheened with sweat and skeletal,

that vulnerable hollow at

the base of his throat glistens

tendons stand out in his neck,

he’s an amphetamine-fuelled anorexic.

I know where I’d be if wishes came true.


Dave casts a weary look around.

Blinks, his gaze half-dead, like he

needs to be hospitalised,

except when he can get lost in

his guitar and just close his eyes,

he’s a Dave the Rave in disguise.


Glazed, gone, absent without trace,

whoever’s behind those terminally,

zoned dark-ringed feverish eyes,

is barely keeping the pain at bay.

So you half-turn to a brother

who’s not really there, then turn away.


But when Ray’s anguished yell

crescendos into

Dave’s impassioned guitar,

it sends a thrill right down your spine.

It gets you every single time.


Originally in main bashfulbadgersblog.

Also see poem on ‘Waterloo Sunset’.