In cubicled-rooms they sat,
vinyl spinning to the beat,
their fingertips electrified,
juiced by gallons of whiskey,
hanging onto
a single-thread of heaven,
neon flash sputtering,
some had smack
injected into road maps,
frantically penning
any memories
they had forgotten
& banshees danced nearby,
crying unknown words,
something alien,
the sounds of torment,
not meant
for human consumption,
but our posterity.