27

The following Stream of Consciousness story/poem is offered up as part of the Six Sentence Story challenge hosted by Girlie on the Edge blog. The additional challenge this week (set for me by Girlie – thanks mate 😲 😎) is that sentences #1 and #6 have already been written for my contribution, and I am left to fill in the gaps… no easy task when the beginning and end of a story is set in stone, and you are left to create the middle. But what is a challenge, if not challenging?

The prompt word this week is: Exchange. I believe Girlie on the Edge, InSPIRAtion and The Wakefield Doctrine blogs are also taking part in this SOC Exchange experiment (or are at least in some way culpable!). I have highlighted in bold the parts not written by me.

Warning: contains strong language, with words such as fuck, cuntish and cock, which may cause offense to some readers 😊

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27

Jesus Christ, did I just see what I thought I saw, Jimi Hendrix in Seattle walking through a diner door, into the kitchen? and I ain’t bitchin’, coz I finally got to see him, in all his Purple Haze and Stratocaster itchin’…

… to be played. Kurt Cobain, curled up and foetal in a stomach-cramping session, Heart-Shaped box bust open like Pandora was spring cleaning, and I ain’t keening, coz I finally got to see him, and he smelt like Teen Spirit and All Apologies…

… to the loved ones left behind picking up the broken pieces. Brian Jones in undertones of swimming pool chlorine and Ruby Tuesday blues, and Robert Johnson at the crossroads in his Sunday-best shoes, and I ain’t causin’ issues, coz I finally got to see them, as they played a sweet duet on their respective guitars…

… that had Janis Joplin serenading the stars. Man, she swooned the moon and the grifting galaxies, melted hearts with Piece of My Heart, and screamed for the keys to a Mercedes Benz, and I ain’t mad nor gone round the bend, coz I finally got to see her, yeah me…

… Me and Bobby McGee, Me and Mr Jones. See, Amy Winehouse snuck in the house way past our bedtimes and appointments for Rehab, no time for a final tattoo and sexy-as-fuck new hairdo, and I ain’t going coocoo, coz I finally got to see her – non-commodity, tax-free, born and dead-free, no more anxiety, the 27 Club are free from punishing publishing deals and tours destined to end in tears, commodity, commodities, cuntish cocks in suits propping up bars and ignoring middle-eight chord changes and four-way harmonies, gahhhhhh, this SOC Exchange of mine laments the greed of Greatest Hits and The Very Best Ofs, and AI bots strapping on guitars and mashing up lyrics and superstars, they say: what the 27 Club won’t see will never hurt them, because they already hurt themselves in some rock ‘n roll way, and we are free to pick up the pieces and bargains and exploit their passed days…

… “I’m out for a bargain” we say, not only when we venture the perilous waters of the markets but also in the realm of human relationships; no surprise here, as marketing guidelines have become the One-To-Rule-Them-All law governing human relationships of love no, fuck that part about love, I exercise my right as a creator… I’m talking about the music!!! – thank you 27ers for giving us a glimpse, as you bowed out before your shining star was eclipsed, and I ain’t cruisin’ for a bruisin’, coz I finally got to meet the 27, infusing laughing my tits off with them about the morally-confused and ethically-corrupt stock exchange mantras such as minimize cost – maximize profit, at all GDMFSOB costs. 

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27 written by Ford Waight, 14 July 2022.

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27 photograph by Ford. 27 Club photo graphic by Six String Society via belenzon.com

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27 is dedicated to musicians around the world who have suffered and are suffering from mental health problems and substance abuse.