From the guitar in his hands
A nightmarish C-chord struggles, then dies at birth
Roadies trained for years in loyal rescue
Stand, arms crossed, side of stage
Like paramedics unmoved by misery
His ninety-words-per-minute fingers try again
Only the loudness of the PA prevents him hearing
The dull jeering that began after the first song
Beyond the stage lights
The darkness seems ready to throw itself forward and smother him
This stage is the barren hill
Upon which ancient mothers left children to die
The journalist hitches the guitar strap up on his shoulder
For years now, his critical mastery of the rock genre
Has fuelled prose of unrelenting acuteness
Yet, who would have thought
These instruments would be so heavy?
He looks in confused despair at the six strings
Longing for the safe complexity of his computer monitor
And a QWERTY keyboard
At last, a justified arc of glass and beer
Swings in its gleeful parabola towards his head
Later, in hospital
He seems to remember sensing the stubby's weight
Before it broke upon the finally explained sensibilities of his skin
"You're a long way from home, journo boy"