After the Gig

10Jul08

Originally published in the Featured Poet section of Poetry Monthly.

 

After the Gig

I – The Fan

He stands,
charcoal grey pinstriped suit
still immaculate
although the white shirt cuffs
are now grubby,
amongst feedback and roadies;
isolated in imposed idleness.
Long, bony fingers
push jet black hair
from his mask-like face,
not sure what to do
without microphone or beer.
Thin mouth, after singing,
relaxes into something
approximating a smile.
His dark eyes watch.

Not security or a roadie,
yet you’re a barrier.
Your black lyrca dress
presses your stomach flat.
A generous velvet jacket
hangs over your arm
in case the lycra couldn’t hold.
You cloud in perfume.
Your foundation was polyfilla’d:
there’s too much kohl,
not enough mascara.
Your eyes are just
a little too bright,
as you talk to no one,
least of all the man
you’re describing as genius.

I slide past and ask him
how he got that producer.
Offer him a drink
that he gratefully accepts.
His words tumble
in enthusiasm,
his Californian accent
more pronounced,
his smile more genuine.
You glare, unhappy
but unable to remind me
to place him on a pedestal.
A beer’s more
refreshing than sycophancy.
He grins his thanks.

II – The Ligger

Oh, I am just so drained!
My voice has almost gone
but when he did my favorite…
Oh, the intelligence of his lyrics!
His songs are just genius.

What the…?

I hate her already:
she just slipped between those cases!

Who is she?
She’s short -
only comes up to his buttonhole
despite those heels.
Flat too: no curves on her.
She’s gotta be a six.
Bet she needs that jacket to keep warm.
Her hair’s limp and mousey.
Can’t smell perfume:
she probably uses soap.
And is that shadow
or smudged kohl?
Has that lipstick bled?

How dare she!
She’s not worthy.

A beer!
Gotta be the wrong brew.
What would she know?

He’s smiling.
What are they talking about?

III – The Singer/ Songwriter

It’s over.
Didn’t seem too bad.
Sound was lousy:
PA was ancient.
But the crowd made it:
really good atmosphere.

Now what?
I guess I stand here.
Outta the way.
Let the roadies get on with it.
I’ve done my fair share of humping.

She’s off again.
The one with the earrings
as golden as that Californian tan
under the white theatre paint.
I’ve forgotten her name, again.
Forgotten even how she came to be here.

I’m not a genius: I’m a singer.
I’m not a poet: I write lyrics.
And right now I’d like a beer.

Now, she’s genuinely pale
against that black fishnet.
There’re nerves beneath that smile.
Her accent’s British, polite,
as she asks about my songs.
There’s a story behind that producer…
And thanks for the beer.

Go on, glare from under that white paint.
Her questions interest unlike your statements.
Yeah, I’m missing my wife,
but I’m wearing my wedding ring
and you don’t have one, but might as well have.

        Emma Lee

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