From the guitar in his hands a nightmarish C chord struggles, then dies at birth
Roadies trained for years in loyal rescue, stand arms crossed side of stage like paramedics unmoved by misery
His 90 words per minute fingers try again
Only the loudness of the PA prevents him hearing the dull jeering that began after the first song
Beyond the stage lights, the darkness seems ready to throw itself forward to smother him
The stage is the barren hill upon which ancient mothers left children to die
The journalist hitches the guitar strap up on his shoulder
For years now his critical mastery of the rock genre has fuelled prose of unrelenting acuteness
Yet, who would have thought these instruments would be so heavy
He looks in confused despair at the six strings
Longing for the safe complexity of his computer monitor and a QWERTY keyboard
At last, a justified arc of glass of beer swings in its gleeful parabola towards his head
Later, in hospital, he seems to remember sensing the stubbie's weight before
It broke upon the finely explained sensibilities of his skin
You're along way from home journo boy

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