New verse by Wellington writer (and winner of the 2016 Ockham New Zealand national book award for best first book of poetry) Chris Tse.
Chris Tse and His Imaginary Band
We were brighter when the world didn’t know
about us or our rock n’ roll dreams. Now
we dress in black, but we’re not depressed—
we’re just backlit, per record label instructions.
Fans come and go, but true fans stick with you
through the stigma of rib removal and that feud
with Jem and The Holograms. Nobody can win.
Nowadays, the world is made of oysters and
everyone’s had a taste. Can I just say that I think
I’ve done too many drugs. (Or maybe it’s gout?)
The bloggers won’t stop reading into our
matching tattoos. Yes, they’re of each other’s wives,
but what’s that got to do with the music?
Everyone has forgotten we’re an imaginary band.
A suggested path back to relevancy: nip slip—rehab
ten-trip—a greatest hits. It’ll take an untimely death
to seal our legend. No veins for overdose,
no doomed flight. Buried by a mountain
of French fries—that’s how I want us all to go.