The Other Rolling Stones.

creative writing, poetry, Uncategorized

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.

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