It is the curse of the modern day

autograph hunter, not content

with waiting come rain or shine

or hanging around in the darkness

waiting for the object of their affection,

pen at the ready, checked twice,

ink bleeding in anticipation

and growing hot under the pulse

of the sweaty palm;

not content with this

or even the chance of a photograph

that will adorn their wall,

the bed side fondle of the Kodak

captured moment as they stroke

the thin memory

till it blurs and fades through exposure

to the sun or grows cold,

aloof, forgotten in a book

with inscription on the cover

declaring famous people I wanted

to make love to but spent

my time correctly just waiting

patiently for the right time

to say thank you.

 

That bed side fondle,

the wet dream drenched in full glare

of a camera lens and pouted puff cheeks

stare now displaced to the point

where the autograph hunter

stands below the stage, the musician

lost in the ecstasy,

unaware they have been snapped

and the poses of the object above them,

their eyes closed, feeling

the beat

of harmony, of powerful persuasion

that the lyric intends

and all around them, there is a flashbulb

spiked memory and the autograph book

is now complete.

 

No longer content to say I was there

and be believed, now the actual proof,

like I-Pads recording every second

of the stage and the reckless off camera highlights,

comes from being able to say

I was there, look, I’m underneath the musician

as he plays solo.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016