Transformation poem for Pure Fiction's Bus

This week's task, set by Pure Fiction, (who you'll find over here, along with the other passengers) was a poem on a transformation of any sort. So here's a work in progress, I've been working on but not really progressing with for a while.

Renewed

Sometimes a band on stage get in a drench

Their lips get locked at funny angles

Sweat runs their soft skinned temples

They hurl their E’s and Ow’s

Throw shapes make funny eyebrows

Tongues slip out – triangles of focus - sharp

And they writhe in their guitars

Or try to marry their sound systems, pretend they're harps

Strike out and pluck their own harmonics

Make love under the lights forget their cares

Their heads thrown back to fully feel

The sonic beat, the ecstacy, a fleeting sense that they are gods

In charge of everything that matters

Their eyes contort, they steal themselves,

And in the scatter

You can see what they look like when they dance

That intimate duet of lovers,

The slow smile, secret euphoria pulsing undercover

A fight to the top, a breathless-senseless working hard

Discarding shards of guardedness, all there witness

With them, climb the climb

Yes, the audience on lead singers back

In the ruck sack, breathing that thin air

Trudge tight inside that frozen time

To right up top the red hot liquid summit

All fall together back the mountain side

almost to despair, to silence

in the sway of that shy moment there's a newborn afterglow

That we know is held apart

Almost sacred to the hearts

of happy comrades at the show, amazed

A flashing concentration of life intrinsic splendid

Forever hooked ... we drift from concert, dazed

Something broken in us - mended