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TISM
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You're A Long Way From Home, Part 2
From the guitar in his hands a nightmarish C chord struggles, then dies at birth Roadies trained for years in loyal rescue, stand arms crossed side of stage like paramedics unmoved by misery His 90 words per minute fingers try again Only the loudness of the PA prevents him hearing the dull jeering that began after the first song Beyond the stage lights, the darkness seems ready to throw itself forward and smother him The stage is the barren hill upon which ancient mothers left children to die The journalist hitches the guitar strap up on his shoulder For years now his critical mastery of the rock genre has fuelled prose of unrelenting acuteness Yet, who would have thought these instruments would be so heavy He looks in confused despair at the six strings Longing for the safe complexity of his computer monitor and a QWERTY keyboard At last, a justified arc of glass of beer swings in its gleeful parabola towards his head Later, in hospital, he seems to remember sensing the stubbie's weight before It broke upon the finely explained sensibilities of his skin You're along way from home journo boy
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