Marcus Clayton
A Love Letter To All The Noise
“Make your mark on a darkened dance floor.
Slip across the present tense,
Press up against the skin you care for,
Meet me where the sweat descends”
-“The Sweat Descends” by Les Savy Fav
Lyrics Daniel screamed echoed
through our bones as a whirlwind of sweat
glistened against the night in place of stars.
A tornado of dirt kicked
up by steel-toed boots raced down throats
of kids crashing skulls, joyfully
grinning through chipped teeth and
dripping blood that cascaded down split
lips, layering the grass in red dew
and no one gave a shit.
Bruises were drowned out by hyena cackles as everyone
voluntarily crashed into wooden pillars,
into piss drenched brick walls,
into the carpet of broken beer bottles
across the pro tem dance floor,
into bare-chested punks slam dancing
into one another, shaking their ass
to a tidal wave of fuzz guitar
that swept their legs,
pulling them every which way I
dictated as callouses grew over my strings. I gladly
drew blood, prying the skin from my knuckles
strumming into oblivion,
trying to make Ian MacKaye proud, as a totem pole lurched
in front of me—a makeshift crowd surfer
sitting on Sammy’s shoulders.
The kids were fireworks
exploding inches above Earth, stomping
to the rhythm of thunder,
James’ toms cracking the sky,
pieces of Vic Firth leaving splinters
within his palms, sweat glazed
over his wounds as he beat
the kit like a blacksmith forging weapons. Daniel, with bass
in hand, leapt higher than the crickets running
from the patio, higher than the wave of kids
splashing with the tempo
of his strings—thick and deep—splashing
like jagged rocks at the foot of an ocean, higher
despite his cynical admissions,
“I’m fearful I’m fearful I’m fearful of flying”
but flying was fearful of him.
The dust peppered into perspiration puddles,
feedback slowly seeped out of our ears,
two drumsticks in four corners, three
bass strings ripped out with naked
fingers—almost straight from Daniel’s heart—and he sat
near his buzzing bass amp, head hung
down, letting the white noise wash
over him, ignoring the applause of the hushed
crowd—no longer a riptide, but a trickle.
Our last note rang out
chasing falling stars tearing sky like paper,
chasing after Daniel’s desperate words,
chasing away adrenaline from the kids’ veins,
chasing away the theatre façade,
“venue” became “porch” again,
but I still smiled
turning off the power, flipping the switch
downward, like the collapsing moon.
I grew up in South Gate, CA and recently graduated from California State University, Long Beach in 2012 with a BA in English. While I’m currently working on an MFA in Poetry from the same University, I also tutor extensively and occasionally run workshops at the Los Angeles Southwest College. Outside of academia, I am also a passionate comic book fan and lover of a voluminous spectrum of music—both which play a significant role in my poems.
A Love Letter To All The Noise
“Make your mark on a darkened dance floor.
Slip across the present tense,
Press up against the skin you care for,
Meet me where the sweat descends”
-“The Sweat Descends” by Les Savy Fav
Lyrics Daniel screamed echoed
through our bones as a whirlwind of sweat
glistened against the night in place of stars.
A tornado of dirt kicked
up by steel-toed boots raced down throats
of kids crashing skulls, joyfully
grinning through chipped teeth and
dripping blood that cascaded down split
lips, layering the grass in red dew
and no one gave a shit.
Bruises were drowned out by hyena cackles as everyone
voluntarily crashed into wooden pillars,
into piss drenched brick walls,
into the carpet of broken beer bottles
across the pro tem dance floor,
into bare-chested punks slam dancing
into one another, shaking their ass
to a tidal wave of fuzz guitar
that swept their legs,
pulling them every which way I
dictated as callouses grew over my strings. I gladly
drew blood, prying the skin from my knuckles
strumming into oblivion,
trying to make Ian MacKaye proud, as a totem pole lurched
in front of me—a makeshift crowd surfer
sitting on Sammy’s shoulders.
The kids were fireworks
exploding inches above Earth, stomping
to the rhythm of thunder,
James’ toms cracking the sky,
pieces of Vic Firth leaving splinters
within his palms, sweat glazed
over his wounds as he beat
the kit like a blacksmith forging weapons. Daniel, with bass
in hand, leapt higher than the crickets running
from the patio, higher than the wave of kids
splashing with the tempo
of his strings—thick and deep—splashing
like jagged rocks at the foot of an ocean, higher
despite his cynical admissions,
“I’m fearful I’m fearful I’m fearful of flying”
but flying was fearful of him.
The dust peppered into perspiration puddles,
feedback slowly seeped out of our ears,
two drumsticks in four corners, three
bass strings ripped out with naked
fingers—almost straight from Daniel’s heart—and he sat
near his buzzing bass amp, head hung
down, letting the white noise wash
over him, ignoring the applause of the hushed
crowd—no longer a riptide, but a trickle.
Our last note rang out
chasing falling stars tearing sky like paper,
chasing after Daniel’s desperate words,
chasing away adrenaline from the kids’ veins,
chasing away the theatre façade,
“venue” became “porch” again,
but I still smiled
turning off the power, flipping the switch
downward, like the collapsing moon.
I grew up in South Gate, CA and recently graduated from California State University, Long Beach in 2012 with a BA in English. While I’m currently working on an MFA in Poetry from the same University, I also tutor extensively and occasionally run workshops at the Los Angeles Southwest College. Outside of academia, I am also a passionate comic book fan and lover of a voluminous spectrum of music—both which play a significant role in my poems.