Sober-itis

Sunday, August 29th, 1966,
90 Fahrenheit.
Just after midnight.
No wind.
The Marquee.

An average lead guitarist
from a London based ballroom orchestra,
occupational bun filler,
indignantly beats-up –whilst downing
a whole bottle of Four Roses–
a frowning young man,
who, for many years,
carries his name
as a taut blown flag.

The 44-year-old guitarist
from the average orchestra
reproaches
his colored craft-brother
that he's way too long
way too much
playing too many notes
in way too little time.

Not much later
Jimmy Hendrix
–with a dry gasp–
sets his favorite guitar
on fire.

The beat orchestra itself
unravels
its entire existence
in three performances.

One at the low budget wedding
of two transsexual psychiatrists
where the cold onion soup
is served
in china thimbles.

One at an after party
following the opening
of a night shop
selling tailor made
scuba diving equipment
for mongrel dwarfs

and one at a reunion concert
in favor of
the acquisition
of billiard chalks
for a private club
whose clientele
mainly consists
of loudly
snoring wild boars.

Surprisingly
the average guitarist
is still alive.

He is
surrounded by the best of care
in a jail
in East End.

To pimps and killers
he's telling
ad nauseam
how he showed Hendrix
the way
on his guitar.

If we can believe
what the doctors say
the man is suffering from
a cancerous throat,
yellow jaundice,
heel spurs,
tuberculosis,
fungal toes,
bedsores,
dipsomania,
masturbation fixation,
tunnel crush,
involvement delusions,
anemia,
anal balloons,
f*ck-urge
IQ-transformation,
eyelash loss,
genouflexious addiction,
c*nt slurps,
splinted erection,
synchronous exhalations,
penetration panic,
and
sober-itis.