patti smith, brighton dome. tuesday 16th august 2005
she is five foot six going on seven foot.
she is joey ramone.
she is punching above her weight effortlessly.
she is shamanic street preacher.
she strides on, kicks in and we’re straight down the piss factory.
no ceremony. no quarter.
no music and it’s loud as fuck.
it’s straight in your face.
it’s up your nose.
we can smell it.
it’s breathtakingly away beautiful.
drink it in.
soak it up.
fits and starts and farts and spits.
Smith gobbles you up chews you madly then spits you out.
bitch, whore, mother, lover.
she's calling the shots.
there’s a tv in the corner.
next to a full size elvis.
he was once the king.
he fell from gracelands.
28 years ago to the day.
and that’s when I fell in love.
with this Smith who is a giant.
her fragile frame fills the dome.
she’s at home.
but there’s no turning down the lights.
it’s an aural atmosphere we’re wrapped up in here.
his bobness secreted up her not inconsiderable sleeve.
how does that feel?
she’s on a roll.
we are rocked.
if she called in her debts she’d be filthy rich.
so many IOUs.
but now she wanna tells us how it’s gonna be
she is she and not fade away.
a wild horses finale segueing into gloria
hosanna! we cried. tears of joy.
for the boy.
who looked at patti and
here I go.
and I don't know why.
I spin so ceaselessly.
could it be she's taking over me?
some strange music draws me in.
makes me come on like some heroin.
oh god I fell for you…