For ever-night the charcoal scent of ever-warm,
floating food smoke,
belched from a thousand grills,
wraps nostalgic yearning round
baseline, notes
and treble clefs;
the pulsing veins of town.
Up on the roof-garden,
chilled intoxication sipped.
Reclined, overlooking "The Howling Wolf"
aroused by the baseline, the thick
beast guitar;
electronic orgasmic desire
overwhelmed,
possessed,
the musical climax
desperate.
I plead to the drummer,
the melody boy
Drum down big old rhythm boy.
Howl down the pale old moon.
