JP Drive-In, August 11

Satan’s City

 

This is crazy surf stuff with a driving beat at the drive-in the wire gets wound around the ice picks crack the ice in the cowboy country up north where the sun shines on the speckled surf moray eels and sharks are the guitar on swinging fire

 

It’s Christmas in satan’s city Rory mad on drums in skivvies with the buff chest banging the skins Arion a bubbling bass he’s the ace

 

This one’s bent like ten cents on a train track with fuck up beats in the summer heat and it gets louder and stronger like seven percent ale and you drink seven for seven days and you’re in heaven

 

This one’s lounge metal you can hear the bartender shaking martinis by the potted plants in the tinted window bays it’s an open shut logic you catch your fingers in when it slams down like the chord slams down on guitar at the end of the run before it boils like tea at four the trio at neat loose ends colliding like bumper cars when you were a kid in 1969 at Paragon Park too young to be let in you didn’t measure up to the line on the wall and you wanted it so bad