Notes from the Underground Scene

When I get to the concert it is too late
The people with excellent hair
Are already there
Their popped collars slice through the air
Like the sharp wings of kites that they emulate

Their black rims are lens-less and glint in the red light
They pray to the DJ to quicken the dead night

From outside, in silence, assailing the border
A darkness seeps in to the room's empty corner

It did pool and expand to consume the space
In moments, before me there stood
A man in a hood
An entrance…importing no good
And a void right where one would presume a face

As he turned to me I felt a chill in my soul
And a voice issued forth from that dark hellish hole
That was slightly less pleasant than bone scraping bone
In the deep of the woods when you're camping alone

"Have you seen this man's face?" the whisper intoned
And there, in a bleached hand of bone
A photograph shown
A face that is all too well known
The face of the metrosexed underground clone!

I quell a smile not entirely well-intentioned
And gesture to indicate the aforementioned

Now confronted with multitudes, this Shade from Hell
If he had but a face it would surely have fell

Turning back to the shadows he gave a wince
Quite obviously he was pissed
He growled and hissed
And, forthwith, dissolved into mist
The dispatcher in Hell hasn't seen him since.