*Authors Note: This is an excerpt from a longer work titled Letters from the Tomb*
Punk rock phantasm arrives on a spiked wave, a rainbow Mohawk glowing sevenfold in its path.
“Red,” the specter says, “represents the heart spilled by Johnny Rotten in his fight for peaceful anarchy.”
Its bull ring, pierced through ghost nose, clinks against leather and chains.
“Green,” the specter says, “shines for Lemmy’s whiskey-soaked, nicotine-christened invincibility.”
Its guitar materializes white and weapon-shaped as out-of-tune chords ripple across stage.
“Blue,” the specter says, “is Ian Curtis, a beacon failing magnificently, a lost cause worth saving, a diamond without luster.”
The audience shuffles, drains drinks, waits for the departing opening act.
“Indigo,” the specter says, “curves to Jim Morrison’s royalty, his aura roaming deserts and settling inside homeless door frames.”
They throw change at the apparition’s threadbare Chuck Taylors, and a tossed can passes through its body.
“Yellow,” the specter says, “belongs to Keith Moon rattling unseen dimensions with cymbal crashes and snare beats.”
Punk rock phantasm disbands into gray clouds as riotous exorcist gangs chant rhymes petitioning cloaks and daggers, otherworldly matters.