Sunset on sleaze
If Elvis could of only seen you all -
dancing like peacocks, you're most profound
birds of paradise, extravagant and tall.
Discotheque platforms and ballroom blitz,
topping the charts way back in the seventies,
with pouts and glitz.
Aces up your sleeves,
while some of you later became sex romantics,
sluts and glamour queens -rock gypsy drag,
as you drew heavily on that fag,
On covers of hard rock and metal culture magazines.
Hot lips, lycra, spray on tight at the spleens,
face done in warpaint, mascara dreams,
as fast as melting sky liner eye lines from the heat of the spotlight,
like some rocket of NASA's you scream away through the night.
You're the gods of stardust burning bright,
you're the glint and the sharpness of Bowies' knife.
Brown sugar in the veins for some of you anyway,
haunting out nightclubs and darkened alleyways,
chewing with rats on your American chuddies
most of you knew Jack as your drinking buddy.
Vodka Tequilas, dossers and dealers,
whiskey a go go's and cold gin squealers.
White lines, fizzy nose sherbet delights,
pink champagne, pills and herbal pipes.
Fresh bleeding tattoos and needle marks,
you held beggars banquets and stole ladies hearts.
The cries of the crowds carry me on,
to the stage, to the show, to the amps where it's from.
The cock steady action,
as the axeman
to his knee in orgasmic solo bliss,
then posed at girls in the front row with a tongue wet kiss.
They offered libidos to the girls after the gig,
A golden ticket - backstage pass and possibly a lick,
and a promise.
The frontman bandana and wailing call,
pelvic thrusting microphones,
hairsprayed birds' nests glistening pink,
and always cat walking like a broody pigeon of some ornamental type.
Those were the days, in their own nirvana,
but where now the days of that fashion and hype?
Where now the pirates, the vagabonds, and the gypsies of sunset strip?
The sun has set. Yet guitar dirty fingers,
still resonate licks,
flash pan magic of
picks and tricks - slide staccato, and hammer on pull off flick.
A drummer from Hades and a copy of WHO?
Bass players that were vicious,
all a part of the pistol
the whole motley crew.
In their caravans of chaos on their Romany ways,
by the way that they dressed, some say that they must be gay,
but most of them bedded countless women:
Who knows where those sperms went swimming.
Plastic spoons in their mouths trying to follow Daltrey,
and acting out scenes with raunchy lingerie.
Snow white tans, leather and lace,
some with safety pins stuck in their face.
Tartan, silk and bleach stained jeans,
the Dogs D' amour with their platinum rings.
Harley Davidsons with shades,
genocide dinosaurs stalking city glades.
Trash, dirt and wasted.
Rolling on these rumbling stones,
but mostly retired now in their millionaire homes.
I won't forget Blockbuster and All the young dudes,
Pretty Vacant, or Metal Guru.
Gone now sadly their presence in rust,
shame they ran out of glitter dust.
©David Addington 1997