checking out bands varies in definition or intensity:
time consists of $1.50 goon sopped from plastic
troughs or memory gets not much more than drunk
then gets drunk with black fraught happiness. maybe there’s
pre-ordering tickets & squatting on a lake with a pipe &
a constellation of short red dots – roadies mess with the
double-bass – standing up back & remembering
(besides what) only every brief gutter-poignant wrong chords.
even checking out bands excuses meeting girls
who followed you there, left high-school thinking
you were a band. checking out Evermore goes typically as
none of these things & with gladness & with persistence & with
autumn you talk outside like a VB add. you’re to the right of
the wiped out nuclear med. student (voluntary unionism took
him out) & sure there’s catchy songs, songs that play on
but there are riffs you could play (& get this you’re a writer) so
nothing gels & all the emptiness is a tad \\\ empty. you render
the ‘right on’ chorus motorolla style & get only a waving hand,
surface heat is unremarkable but growing & then sure enough
lights go out over your skin without remark: you’re trawling
the grass for promises, phone-numbers & post-gig venues. long
time before you see sense / longer Evermore my friend.

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