Haphazard

The hissing speaker threatens to emit
an ear-pounding shriek;
snakepit of power cables looking for
someone to convulse.
Cartloads of shiny guitars waiting to be
splintered in ecstasy, or at least
in pursuit.
Row after row of
big, hot lights are
hung by sweaty hands
that struggle not to slip from the slippery steel trusses.
Colossal black curtains are hoisted
high behind the lights,
industrial sized smoke machines
installed on the stage floor.

Luscious grass waits to be
trampled half to death by dancing feet.
Thick plastic tents are pitched in
strategic locations
with portable particle board tables,
tap machines and cash boxes.
Freshly sanitized, sweetly smelling,
sparkling Johnny-on-the-spots
are backed in by beeping trucks.

A night of excesses is
in the air, an all-out
get freaky fest,
a thousand people coming with
a thousand libidos,
all unconsciously seeking that
one, gargantuan, group
orgasm.
Figuratively speaking, of course.

At first, they’ll shuffle in
sober, awkwardly keen to
anyone who might be
looking at them.
All around are displays of
concocted self-confidence,
blatant self-advertisement.
But soon, liquor and hash starts to
dull the desire to strut, and
weakens the threat that
other strutters pose.

Not long before fragile personas
shatter revealing lost,
lusting, barbaric
honesty. Timidity has
given way to truth,
however haphazardly.