::03:22:08::

::: Sex Mob @ Tonic in NYC: Residuals of River :::

A plastic sheet, red light and a horn without a head
Blares promises made with bodies and bullet bras
This is a homecoming in this early dawn of the 21st century
There is an American Spirit cigarette pack on the Marshall amplifier
An empty plastic cup falls from a lazy hand
Hitting the ground plastically

Some take a notice-glance
While the horns settle their blaze by asking
What’s a saddle strap between friends?

The Courtney Love look-a-like in the crow’s nest
Mixes lazily under red light
Making everyone look good with 80’s artist’s stripes
Surrounded by exits upon exits

No one focused on the band even knows
Except the boys in the Sex Mob
Her real name is Andrea.

I am in the corner entertaining an Amstel Light
With half of a hard-on
Holding up the wall and myself with a new vision
Of some seriously f*cked-up choreography
Only in my mind
I call it the Suit Insurgents
Freeing us from all that is Graham and Bausch
All clothing as uniform
Which it already is
And critical NY mass situations unknown
Until they happen
Without calling them f*cking throwbacks
To happenings

Palm and palm to the cold, cold wall
My beer by my right boot drained of its sh*tty life
As whatever in my mind gets extended

I watch a black leather boy melt into a black leather girl
As the nostalgic, faux Dixieland is nothing but
After, after the only Louisiana storm
That Spike Lee cares about
In extreme blue silhouettes
L.E.S. Hipsters become bones of Medusa’s Raft
Made more dense by bad, red bar light

I believe
There are many more air drummers in the 21st century
Than air guitarists
At least in this moment

A women I have never met in this lifetime turns and asks:

“The boys are still playing their horns, but what should you do when the press photographer has already left the scene?”

“F*ck. I don’t know.”

I live my own private Idaho.

Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla

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