Sid Vicious lives on in oceans of punk rock daydreams in our heads. Bass guitars blaring rudely through distorted sound effects, melodramatic posturing and aggressive movement dawns on stages whose floorboards creak at every stomp of sneaker. Sweat beads like a broken necklace whose string cannot find its clasp on the other end. A string of pearls hit the ground like rain. Beer become warm from the stage lights and sold out crowd. A scream heard from off-mic. I want to hear the guitars in my ears again, reverberations. The buzz coming up from the floor and spreading throughout us all. Harmonic togetherness in concert wholeness, oneness. Buddha with the brickface. What I wouldn’t do for an overpriced beer and a night out, a reminder that I too am alive and in this moment. Am feeling these emotions, or have felt them, have claimed and laid ownership to them. This world is traumatic and cruel. I do not want to live as a skeleton when I have not yet decomposed. Compass points North inside; one true thing. Light bulbs flicker on and cascade, like carnival, Jersey Shore boardwalk.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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