Lester Bangs’ Moonlight Raiders

by davidchrzanowski

Surfaces so hot they feel cold.
Skin is dried wax,
the damage is done.

Playing with the big boys –
they surround you star-struck.

Lester Bangs,
Lou Reed,
essays of demagogues,
boozed up logic,
drugged eyeballs popping
words everywhere
except in the pages they belong to.

Gather the Raiders,
their sweat encrusted t-shirts,
we’ll take one last ride
into moonlight regression.