Gigs And Ganga.

Gigs and Ganga.


I can barely remember Hotel Haze,
in a suite decorated with 5 rockers,
lost in the blues of a song and a bong,
sprawled like loose jointed puppets,
on cushions and shag,
paying unplugged riffs
to fill the rifts
in a show the next night.

We were young and full of spunk,
the world was our Blue oyster cult,
and we suckled the meat.
Groupies filled the emptiness
with emptiness filled.

Then the scent of sweat, ozone,
and black velvet shots
greeted us back stage,
after dreamless nights of revelry.
Soon enough the crowd
devoured our inspirations,
burning Bics to call us back,
for an encore, one last morsel of music,
to carry them off to their real worlds,
and bid us return to the Hotel's haze.


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