I'm leaning on a stand for support of something or other,
he's putting the mic closer to the speakers;
feedback.
It's a response to questions I was caught screaming towards the back wall,
only to hear them break at the far-end over the tops of 'them'.
Vibrations making my skin tremble,
in fear,
in repose,
in envy,
of those whose lights shine brighter than mine do.
In this dark secluded resting place of weary alcoholics and cheap lays,
who am I trying to impress but the bartender who gives shoddy looks through ***** glasses.
She's squiggling on the floor and I doubt she even knows why,
but he can dig it.
Nobody gives a **** what's playing as long as they hear it.
So I have them hear it,
they have them feel it
and we go on like this for forty-five minutes.
They're grateful,
but their drunk so that's not saying much.
This is all the fantasy I psych myself up for,
I'm projecting.