Do not lance your hair
Just to satisfy those men in suits,
Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze
Reserved for only you.
Let your image be cultivated
Through the culture of the downstroke.
The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar
That shudders at your touch
And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******
Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.
I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany
And I recall on the benefit of all men
The first and forgotten lovers,
Buried beneath years of clumsy ***
And vicious disregard.
And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter
You remember every wince of self-doubt,
Etched across the faces of your women
That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy
Of your youthful wantonness
And the hardness of your ****
So age will bite at your features,
And you will squint in the wind,
Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.
At some age you will cut your hair
And iron your shirt.
Nurse your whiskey
And find yourself in receipt of all those women
Still tangled in the hotel sheets
In the back lodgings of your mind
And everything they did to shape you.
And you pick up that old acoustic
And play the tune of one thousands odes.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
Do not lance your hair
Just to satisfy those men in suits,
Or your woman, sat there with that expectant gaze
Reserved for only you.
Let your image be cultivated
Through the culture of the downstroke.
The lazy thick steel on the neck of the guitar
That shudders at your touch
And responds with the readiness of one thousand ******
Cooing their broken sounded and false approvals.
I see your fingers fumble across the chipped mahogany
And I recall on the benefit of all men
The first and forgotten lovers,
Buried beneath years of clumsy ***
And vicious disregard.
And from the shadows in the archives of your grey matter
You remember every wince of self-doubt,
Etched across the faces of your women
That you never cared to notice in the dizzy ecstasy
Of your youthful wantonness
And the hardness of your ****
So age will bite at your features,
And you will squint in the wind,
Cowering at the cold that clings to your bones.
At some age you will cut your hair
And iron your shirt.
Nurse your whiskey
And find yourself in receipt of all those women
Still tangled in the hotel sheets
In the back lodgings of your mind
And everything they did to shape you.
And you pick up that old acoustic
And play the tune of one thousands odes.
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