Under The Merch Table
Jake Tringali
without a doubt, this scummy bar should be closed / burned without prejudice
condemned as the investigation to this night’s crime scene / of the most unholy sins
my crusade / has taken me into this den
with no choice / the small gathering of the disturbed surround me
dimly lit bodies ricochet, spreading some disease / buzzing sideways, viral
too many drug cocktails pulsing under the skin / amidst subcutaneous tattoos
deep in the back corner / smoky denizens in their own haze
scanning the crowd for the next conquest / the next victim
the third band starts sound check / the bass plucks a single note over and over,
reverberates through the spine / this temple shakes
a waitress – slash – actress swings the door open / an airborne beer can hits her ass
red light escapes the green room / the headlining band’s inner sanctum
further, the ninth circle of hell lies / under the merch table
no light escapes this abyss / dark devils talk further treachery
the sullen girl, with fat ear plugs / probably signalling some kind of sexual fetish
at the ready to sell t-shirts, hoodies, cds, and stickers / but not really
she shakes her plaid miniskirt / over those diabolical fishnet tights
thigh high boots / fuck-me boots
a heinous gathering of paraphernalia / under the merch table
two grubby duffel bags, with band t-shirts / a fat black dildo, the smallest bit of cocaine
scraps of a latex condom…not the whole thing / no protection
sticky dirty lozenge / grimy scum, the floor of 20,000 stale beers
deft hands flowing in and out, secret exchanges / black commerce
larger men attend to their desires / access to small evils