A hyperactive bearded Ray,
guitar slung low on his hips,
by that razorblade pelvis.
Oh what I’d give for nights like this,
Rockpalast Essen 1982.
Skin sheened with sweat and skeletal,
that vulnerable hollow at
the base of his throat glistens
tendons stand out in his neck,
he’s an amphetamine-fuelled anorexic.
I know where I’d be if wishes came true.
Dave casts a weary look around.
Blinks, his gaze half-dead, like he
needs to be hospitalised,
except when he can get lost in
his guitar and just close his eyes,
he’s a Dave the Rave in disguise.
Glazed, gone, absent without trace,
Whoever’s behind those terminally,
Zoned dark-ringed feverish eyes,
Is barely keeping the pain at bay.
So you half-turn to a brother
Who’s not really there, then turn away.
But when Ray’s anguished yell
Dave’s impassioned guitar,
it sends a thrill right down your spine.
It gets you every single time.