On a chunk of gold confetti
that you push with pointed toe,
you glide around the lit-up, emptied
stadium, the songs you know
only shapes your mouth is making:
leftovers, as you are, too.
Cashed for a sixer, cast-off, broken,
what’s the band to do with you
when the wives join up in Cleveland?
Pack you in that lamb’s fur coat.
Dump you in a suburb, leave you,
Quaaludes slipping down your throat.
To love the music like a groupie—
we all want to lick that edge.
Be seen, on stage, be fucked, be trumped.
Be almost with them, almost dead.
Lay Me Down in Sheets of Linen
(Almost Famous, d. Cameron Crowe, 2000)