F.M Poem by matthew broxton

From my window,
music plays
a plethora of voices,
bass, alto and gutteral growl.

I see a hopeful cat,
on the evening prowl,
cars flow past
forced by the evening tide.

A blues guitar is strummed,
a saxophone resounds
amongst the hastiness of the nightcrowds.

This sounds relaxed,
even tempoed, never a note strained,
all the while a harmonica is played.
The blues is carried, then disapates
surrounded, drowned
by a throbbing bass,
and emphatic electric thrashes.

Music is a passionate love,
not a monotonous drone,
even when classic f.m
is replied by a mournful groan.

I see window panes shake,
when heavy metal is played,
sledgehammer subtlety,
and embraced by studded, inked believers.

The lead singer's death-rattle drawl,
and the guitars shriek
and the headbangers are havin an ball.