The Other Rolling Stones.

Beneath an all night blanket

blues, barefoot in the attic rooms,

side one of Beggars Banquet

blooms and, in the static hum,


summoning my Nicky Hopkins

(juju, voodoo, déjà vu): my sole,

rising, falling. The carpet drums.

I woo the other Rolling Stones.


But someone seems to be missing.

By the kettle in the kitchen;

strumming, no one cares to listen,

the one and lonely, Brian Jones.

5 thoughts on “The Other Rolling Stones.

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