after seeing Carcer City at the Westy

“Had T. S. Eliot been born in the late 1980s I have no doubt that he would be standing on a dingy stage, clad in a Converse T-shirt roaring incomprehensibly about April being the cruellest month.” The Dreaded Press

 

In the morning I watched the 2012 Olympic torch

being lit by the sun (it only took a few seconds)

while a group of Greek actors struck suitably

classical poses and moved reverentially.

But that night I went to see a brutal metalcore band

where the word HELL was taped across the cabinets

and the lights on the amps were colourful as those

in the cockpit of a F-177 Nighthawk or B-66 Destroyer.

The crowd wore branded Tees, hoodies, beanies, Chinos,

new season hot pants, tattoos (on arms, necks, legs)

and shouted FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU from Disaronno lips

as smoke and spit blew in from the side of the stage.

The floor was white hot with the death metal sounds

from blustering ferocious guitars, death growling vocals,

double pedalled drums, bone breaking bass lines

and synchronised headbanging at whiplash speed.

During The Walls That Divide Lewy stuck out his tongue

grabbed his axe and climbed on top of a giant speaker

he looked like the god Apollo but instead of plucking intestines

of a quivering lyre thrashed the steel strings of an electric guitar

and everyone in the crowd struck a suitably classical pose

and reverentially raised their arms and stuck out their middle finger.