Let the hounds out

The old man, devil eyes blazing, white hair long at the sides and bald on top: it was like he couldn’t pull himself away, couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. Like the contrast between stage lights on and stage lights off, audience screaming and audience silent, was too much to bare. 

And, you know, there’s something about drummers. Something about the way they know the language of the universe, something about how they’re trying to tell us but can’t find words, because there are no words, there is only music, there is only the beat, there is only the rhythm of all of us connected, there is only the hum of creation, life and death. 

Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me without an IV of this applause, that I can meter throughout the days so I can stay alive. Please tell me you believe in me, like I’m the devil himself, like my tail scares and delights you, like my smile might be the one you’re lost in forever.

‘Let the hounds out!’ he screams, keeping time.

Please clap, so I might survive, and please don’t stop clapping. Please, God, I don’t know what this is but this is the only thing that makes sense.

‘AWWOOOOO!” we scream in return, and as sweat beads down his face, our response washes over him and he’s visibly relieved, like fan adoration is oxygen and without it he’ll drown, anchored by his darkness to the ocean floor. 

And, you know, I used to only be interested in guitar players, and the way they could play me. I used to dream about all the ways a bass is reminiscent of a woman’s body, I used to turn myself on to all the ways fingers fondling the strings could be interpreted on my skin.

But I don’t want to be played anymore.

I want to talk to the universe and howl at the moon.