By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Sun Feb 20, 11:47 pm ET
Photos by John Kessler
As we legged the sweeping case of stairs that dropped steeply into a punchbowl of bad boys high on grade school antics . . . , the only telling sign of sanity were the Hard-Ons roaming the proscenium.
Amplified poorly from the outset . . . , sound waves went forth without regard, as mastery of the pulsating instruments gushed the legacy built upon decades of sweat drenched arenas.
Felled to our knees, we were victims to the sonic sirens emanating from the rise beyond our sight . . . , and we prayed to the gods for deliverance from this battlefield of wounded hearts.
Bodies clashed amongst naked feats of hero worship, while tones of perfection graced the lengths of the auditory canals, exaggerated for purposes even the artist could hardly know.
No, not even Machiavelli would have attempted to foresee beyond the musical horizon of the three pillars of rock and roll . . . , and yet, with the treachery of Medea fresh in our memories, we gave of our souls with the promise of youth.
Spirited away in the chariot of the sun-god, the triumphant reign of the Hard-Ons exploded in firery waves of possessive movements, culminating in the death of a broken promise of love.
Hard-Ons are not for the delusional.
*All photos and content property of Jack Waldron (photos may not be used without written permission)