In the Plaid

its a spotlight,

there’s spit on the floor,

there’s a swing in the door,

and the cigarettes are ashing in plastic trays on the tables,

the singer is drunk, and you can watch him tear up,

as he belts out just one more song,

its a spider web that shakes,

a puff of smoke,

something inside is tugged,

he’s the ghost of dead teenage tragedy,

he’s Sam Cooke round 2,

he’s rock and roll,

he’s rain dog,

he’s a suicide kid with more sad stories

than he has any right to have


the ghosts!

they designate the man in the plaid


About liamnicholas

I'm a New York educated writer living in New Haven Connecticut. My influences are in the Beat Generation and the Language Poets evolving as we speak in New York. I find inspiration in rock music, art, movies, television, science articles, and of course other people's writing. Thank you for stopping by, please leave a comment or a like, and I encourage you to try writing some poetry yourself. It's not so complicated as many poets like to make it seem. Cynicism is overrated.
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