square circles and music junkies (I am not a groupie)

There’s a crazy guy directing traffic
at the derelict bus stop
and hipsters smoking weed in the square
I don’t know it yet
but I’m about to set myself up
to get groped by a drunk busker
later in the night
because I took the time to throw him
some change and a couple of cigarettes
and mention how I’m a sucker for guitar

I find God in the music of bands
I’ve never heard before
and take photos of bathroom graffiti
thinking
“God is love
but Satan does that thing
with his tongue that you like”
would make a great tattoo

I become a cigarette conversationalist
striking up random people for
the pooling of words and intellect
out on the street
where all the best exchanges
seem to happen
across the road from strip clubs
and adult shops
with lingerie and whips in the windows

We talk art and music and poetry
opportunity presenting itself when
I dare to bare the parts of me
I keep hidden from the people I pass
on the streets of my hometown

And I’m not sure it’s a foot in the door
but I’m honoured to be invited to share
the music-less words of my poetry
with the band members whose music
can bring me to my knees

Our conversation wrenched
from the beauty of art  
when I decline a wasted homeless woman a cigarette
and get called a “white cunt” for my negligence

…

Take me from home and I’m a different person
in a different world where I feel like
I can belong
a junkie for sound
a sexless lover of men that make me wish
I was straight for music

© Indie Adams 2015