By Jack Pedder
I feel like there is something worth crying about,
under the itchy guitar and the bluebird guitar
and above the drums,
but not the bass and not Julian.
Something no one is playing and no one wrote,
with cliffs and wind and centaurs in it
is playing, and, although no one hears it
an entire wheat field is shaking.
I am incapable of hearing New York
or your hairstyles, gentlemen, however
much I concentrate on their presence.
Some colourful liquid I am sure I remember seeing
and which I am certain I haven’t seen, or a girl’s chest,
or some mud with a flower in it,
is what I am hearing tonight gents,
though not in your music,
or your sound, or the style or form of your music,
but something like a beard, in the context
of the smooth cheek left after the beard is gone.