“Ah but don't go home with your hard-on
it will only drive you insane”
L.C.
I saw the ghost of Leonard Cohen
On stage the other night;
the latter hatted version
gave me one hell of a fright
His form was recognisable
but his cheeks were hollowed out
like he’d done a round or two
wif the grim reaper, in a one-sided bout.
His voice was reduced to a whisper
as he leaned into the microphone
and the audience leant in too
until they caught a whiff of his rotting bones.
His skin was thin as rice paper
his range, totally shot —
like an AI programmed hologram
or a poorly assembled bot.
The ghost of Leonard Cohen
had seen better days,
but for the punters who paid to see him
it was pretty much all the same
towards the end of his performance
he took a seat on a raised platform
at the back of the stage;
crossed his legs, closed his eyes
and appeared to disengage
just like that, he was wheeled out
ready for the next late-night show
on an anonymous lil stage somewhere
god only knows —
I swear I saw the ghost of Leonard Cohen
bumming cigarettes at the bar
whatever he went home with that night
I can testify,
was most definitely —
hard.
©️ alan w jefferies
