The Love Song of J. Alfred Prog-Rock
(with apologies to T.S. Eliot)

     Let’s go out then, you and me,
When the sky gives up all its colours to see
Like a laser show at the planetarium;
Let’s go out through empty subdivided streets
Past antiquated fleets
Of luxury sedans in two-car driveways
And neighbourhoods accessible only from highways;
Streets like Neal Peart lyrics in an epic song
Far too obtuse and long
That lead you to a perplexing quandary ...
Oh, do not ask, ‘Why are we here?’
Let’s go out and drink cheap beer.

     The women mumble, ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’
And talk about the Hawkwind show.

     The cigarette smoke slinking about the underground parkade
The marijuana smoke loitering about the underground parkade
Snuck briefly behind the wheels of a Lexus,
Skipped over a large pool of oil,
Wrinkled the nose of a security guard,
Turned back toward you, beginning to creep
And seeing you hadn’t rested all night,
Curled once around your lungs and made you sleep.

     And indeed there will be time
For the acrid smoke that exits through your pipe
Slinking about the underground parkade;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a band for fans down the street;
There will be time to sit around and wait,
And time for all the gigs and heavy jams
That on a school-night happen much too late;
Time for you and time for me,
And time to sift through hundreds of guitar picks,
And work out difficult Santana licks,
Before passing out in front of the TV.

     The women mumble, ‘Yes,’ and ‘No,’
And talk about the Hawkwind show.

     And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I care?’
Time to descend the basement rec-room stairs,
With an uneven part in the middle of my hair –
(They will say: ‘Is that some stubble on his chin?’)
My Asia shirt, rumpled from three weeks in the bin,
My denim jacket thin and simple, accented by a Pink Floyd pin –
(They will say: ‘How that boy reeks of cheap gin!’)
Do I dare
Steal beer money from my mother’s purse?
After school there will be time
For guitar licks and cool rock kicks that I promised to rehearse.

     For I have wasted them already, wasted them all –
Have wasted evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my days in loud rock tunes;
I hear my parents having sex just down the hall
Over top the Zeppelin in the rumpus room.
     So, should I do those ‘shrooms?

     And I have known the lyrics already, known them all –
The lyrics that capture you in a trance-like gaze,
And when I am trance-like, sprawling on the floor,
When I am drunk and lying behind the door
Laid out from all that gin,
Should I think on Deep Purple in that blurry haze?
     And should I do those ‘shrooms?

     And I have known the girls already, known them all –
Small leather purse clutched tight in one mighty claw
(Possessed of more keychains than you or I ever saw!)
Is it their overly back-combed hair
That makes me want to stare?
Girls that huddle in the bathroom, or cloistered in the mall.
     And should I do those ‘shrooms?
     And how about that gin?

****

     Shall I say, I have driven around in a Chevy van
And searched for the swarthy man selling hash,
Underneath a streetlight, over-charging us, laughing?...

     I should have worked at 7-11
And stolen all their nacho cheese.

****

     And through the afternoon, the evening, I sleep so peacefully!
A process spurred by vegetation, becomes
Sopor ... topor ... or hibernation;
Passed out on the floor in front of the TV.
Should I, after napping for three hours,
Have the strength to get up and to shower?
But though I have jammed and practiced, jammed and played,
Though I have picked until my fingers became tatters,
I am no Van Halen – and here’s the matter:
I have drunk more than my body weight in liquor,
And I have seen the girls in my homeroom snicker,
And I knew I would not get laid.

     And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the beer, Doritos and B.O.C.,
Reclining on the couch, some spark between you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To gather your things up in a pile,
To stare at me like some porcelain doll
To lead me to some perplexing quandary,
To say to me: ‘I came to watch your Queensryche tape.
You have an amazing amount of gall.’
If one, responding to my proposals,
     Should say: ‘I didn’t come here to ball.
     That is not what I meant at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all
Would it have been worth while,
After the pizza and the corner store and the cigarettes,
After the coolers, after the Sabbath, after the strobe lights that make my eyes sore –
Did I pass out? I can’t be sure.
Even I cannot discern exactly what I mean!
But as if Jethro Tull suddenly flashed their tablature on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, re-buttoning a blouse with a dark and sombre pall,
And pushing me off the bed, should say:
     ‘That is not what I meant at all.
     Get your stuff – go sleep in the hall.’

****

     No! I am not King Crimson, nor was meant to be;
Am a stalwart bud, one that will do
To hang at a kegger, smoke a bowl or two
Enforce the policy – no swimming in the pool,
While drunk, am occasionally obstinate;
Jocular, notably companionless;
Full of bravado, but sadly desperate;
At times, indeed, downright libidinous –
Quite often, it seems, a Fool.

     I grow cold ... I grow cold ...
Dan keeps the windows of his Trans-Am unrolled.

     Should I wear a pony-tail? I wish I hadn’t lost that brush.
I’ll wear an Alan Parsons cap, and deny I am a lush.
I hear my loutish beermates singing Styx and Rush.

I think they are singing to me.

I have seen them riding by on BMX bikes
Running their fingers through feathered hair blown back,
Gingerly removing smokes from the pockets of their mack.

We have too long cruised the by-ways of this city
Prowling in Camaros coloured orange and brown
Till we get lost, driving to a Yes show in another town.