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  • John Grey

Get the Message

Get the Message

I must resist the singer's message.

Young girls, virgins some of them,

hanging out backstage,

just waiting for his hands

on their soft flesh,

the crush of his sweaty body.

And the alcohol of course,

stacked up on the bar,

one for each pang,

for each night of misery.

Not forgetting the shotgun blast

through lover's heart,

the pistol against temple,

the motor blitz down ocean road

at ninety miles an hour.

I can tap my feet to the beat,

even hum the melody.

But must black out the shouted,

screaming and cajoling, explanation

of what the song's about.

"That's my favorite," my lover

whispers to me.

It's her favorite concurrence,

I fear.

It's her favorite denial,

I'm hoping.

—John Grey


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