The T shirts, surrounded by age, my time in the pit,
the sweat of the Mosh dance, the testosterone mixed
with the one kiss of absolute passion
and her lingering
musk that smiles through the dead
and refused to become dust,
is still tangible in the air
as I think of the gigs
the trophies purchased,
the design catching my eye and the lack of money
for rent, earned the following week
and to become a crest of honour
to say I was there, before I found the right
words to write to add further proof
of my love and despair.
I retire with honour
the great and the good,
the, the old and infirm,
the beer stained
and the plain too small,
for as my music love has increased
so has my appetite…
On the verge of Middle Age,
the T-Shirts have taken their toll
some so loved I cannot bear
to be without
and some evoking the memory
of a gig with a favourite cousin,
a night out with a special woman,
the trip with the lads to borders
unknown
and then there are some I stop short
of burning with sorrow,
as the recall of who I was with
and the sanctimonious display
of arrogance left me feeling cold
and at odds with the joy of the gig
we attended as brothers in arms.
There are those that are hung in reverence,
the hanger dusted free,
there are some that reside in the cupboard,
still cool to go out in,
if the right gig arises
or the sweet recollection of a gentle brush
of perfume tasting lips as a thank you
is my reward, my memory.
There are then those that to whom time
has not been kind of my grim expanse
has made fit not to fit.
To those I give the last salute
and I swear allegiance forever
to the bands imprinted on the chest,
the beauty of advertising the best bands around,
of being nonchalant when asked
what year and venue I saw them in,
and having the grace to mention many…
…these now carefully folded…
And placed to one side to retire,
to never be worn again as the same reason
why there is only two ties in my wardrobe
for the point of them is what?, to just be,
or not, the visual aid to the long since deaf…
The last post is signalled and a hundred T-Shirts
are consigned to the gone forever…
I cannot bear though to let go,
I take a final breath of the infinite and move them on…
the draw under the bed, new, soft and comfortable
gives them shelter, gives them the hope
that they might one day be returned to glory
for putting them in the bin
would be verging on the evil,
to see someone else wear them,
a younger leaner fan,
would lead me to a road of strange jealousy,
like being a thirteen year old once more
and seeing your one former schoolgirl friend
in the arms of a lad a year older than I…
The draw is shut
but the memory of the gig, of the prize
stolen
remains.
Ian D. Hall 2015.