Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
thankfully my nostalgia concerning the late
20the century, coincides with my youth,
i mean youth, and that i also mean
****** idealism, when women were phantoms
and could never be girlfriends or
widows, or tears shed at the grave,
or nothing needy, nothing clinging,
nothing resembling mussels...
         i have to admit, i got ***** the moment
i detached myself from thinking about god...
the third partisan of the a priori
implant dictated by time & space...
            i didn't only shove my genitals into
her genitals, i shoved my ego into her
concept of god... and i subsequently became
a dimmed version of st. augustine...
              because that part of me didn't exactly
make confetti from her reasoning....
          scalped me and dragged about 1000
tumbleweeds in its travels...
             the grand point? i didn't see
   a hairdresser, for the next never ever...
unless they do trim ***** to coincide with
      funny tattoos...
                     i don't know... maybe i was really
ultra-idealistic about women before i lost
my virginity, that after i lost it, after i lost
the foremost grace, i didn't learn the gorilla
impetus to keep one... let alone a harem...
   women really were fun and beautiful and
mysterious when i had them in my head...
      after the fact that i learned too late that they
also took a ****, i couldn't believe it!
        me, adapting to this? this fog-smeared
creature? yes, i can see my nihilism,
                    i''ve been burning that amber light
of a litre of whiskey per night for quiet some time,
drop by Collier Row's Tesco and look at the c.c.t.v.,
but then i put on some creedance clearwater revival
(not cool, aha, used the whole name, right?
cooler me saying c.c.r.? bukowski, lebowski...
same ****, different cover) -
   but i really did experience love... i know... huh ha...
did i recover from it? i'd probably have
recovered from 20 ****** over-doses...
        she got married, obviously...
  because women, don't idealise men...
  unless they meet the criteria of what men are supposed
to own... man idealising woman is a woman per se...
woman idealising man is a man contra per se...
                     after all, a man idealises
thinking about a temp. storage space for his
              which later turns into offspring...
   any woman could agree to being part of that phlegm
and being content at housing those "lucky" offshoots
in her kangaroo rucksack...
           it's as ugly as European thinking is going
to get, it can't get more scientific than this...
   i really do need a square on a rectangular canvas
to prompt a generous conversation about redifing
the point: we're not going back to the Milan school of
oil on canvas... or Rembrandt...
      it's not happening.
so creedance clearwater revival and graveyard train...
how we have bass guitar, and it's nibbling,
just nibbling... just grooving...
                  more like stalking but keep in mind
nibbling... and the there's no rhythm guitar,
because the guitar is just making accents,
the guitar is just twitching... i can't believe how
un-jazz comprehensive modern music is...
                   rhythm doesn't belong to the guitar,
there shouldn't be a rhythm guitar...
rhythm is all bass and drums...
          and i say that: because i hate metallica and how
i can never hear the bass guitar when i listen to them...
no wonder the original bassist got scribbled off...
   i love bass, don't you love bass?
something has to overpower the strength of drums
in modern music, something has to restrain
drums... needs to set the soothing rhythm,
rhythm guitar can't do that, you need the bass
guitar... bass guitar is, quiet frankly,
the most underrated instrument in modern composition...
techno techno! bongo bongo parties of
               berlusconi... bongo bongo... hatchet plus!
yes... silvio... we have the guillotine around here
too... choppy waters... plenty of sharks...
   enough to take a bite, though.
   and i thought naked lunch was bad...
well, i didn't, i didn't even want to plagiarise the Tristian
Tzara bound to it, reminiscent of cabaret voltaire.
huh?   ah yes... creedence clearwater revival,
and the bass on graveyard train, like water coming
down from a leaking tap...
  tum dum doom ta dollop... and it sounds nothing
like that... but something to allow the guitar what
it does best, sure, it joins in the rhythm section at
the beginning of the track... but then the guitar
sets up a momentum of creating accents,
  no rhythm = no solo... accents...
   little licks of being there... very ******* jazzy...
my my, so jazzy... and that's the safe ground to have
in music, retaining the jazz...
             otherwise you get into territory akin to
classical music's anithesis... the opposite of classical
music is... earthquakes... techno techno... drum drum...
drum drum... drum, drum... drum drum drum...
classical music was all about breathing...
  césar franck's les éolides (the breezes) -
and the antithesis? techno techno... muffed up techno:
ambient music... refrigerator sounds...
muffer up drums...
               don't get me wrong, i do listen to
e.g. man with no name...
         but it's rare to hear the jazzy side of things...
  it's just such a waste to see the bass guitar
not used as it should be, i.e. being over-powered
by drums... and using so much rhythm with
a guitar... having the rhythm and the solo...
  like squeezing a pair of testicles of a celibate monk...
god, that hush hush: tone down, tone, tone down,
tone, down... down... down...
             pst... kaput....
                                      i really did start talking
about something else, didn't i?
                this is new... digression as a column of
rhetorical perfection... fair enough having the rhetorical
skills, talking persuasively (well, just lying)
    about the same topic... but find me the rhetorician
than utilises digression, and forgets his talking
because he's changing subjects without really
    categorising them as being different....
    it's a trance state akin to eastern meditative practices...
digression as the most pleasing form of rhetoric,
teachers' oratory technique... not politicians' oratory...
   i never understood why digression was
not the foremost element of rhetoric...
                    political rhetoric is always about
ensuring people remember something,
they never do...
                        politicians drill in the points...
   and for some reason, they never talk to rhetorical
perfection, i.e. being able to digress...
                the most persuasive rhetoric is the rhetoric
with digression at its core...
                       or at least that's how i learned
english from a scotsman...
                                just blah blah blah blah
and at some point, there always will come an aha!
which is the next best thing to an eureka.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong for the hidden play of its essential
   multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"),
of which poets and thinkers alone are capable,
in their own respective modes and their own
directions of sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
                  usually met with a hypen:
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with

    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
VS Apr 2016
A few years ago I bought my first guitar
I had no aspirations of becoming a star
I've never wanted to be recorded, produced, or sold
After you left I just needed something to hold

You're the only reason I play guitar
Playing is my way of healing your lost love scars
Sometimes I still wonder where you are
Yeah, you're the only reason I play guitar

Guitars are made for feeling
Guitars will stay around
Guitars are built for healing
My guitar won't let me down
Like you did, like you did, like you did

I must be at a crossroads in my life
Seems I can't tell the difference between wrong and right
And you ain't helping things by being gone
How I wish you could hear this guitar moan

You're the only reason I play guitar
Playing is my way of healing your lost love scars
Sometimes I still wonder where you are
Yeah, you're the only reason I play guitar

Guitars are made for feeling
Guitars will stay around
Guitars are built for healing
My guitar won't let me down
Like you did, like you did, like you did

You're the only reason I play guitar
Playing is my way of healing your lost love scars
Sometimes I still wonder where you are
Yeah, you're the only reason I play guitar
Thjis is a song. Traditional country.
Steve Apr 2017
I look at you all see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps.

I don't know why nobody told you
How to unfold your love
I don't know how someone controlled you
They bought and sold you.

I look at the world and I notice it's turning
While my guitar gently weeps
With every mistake we must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps.

I don't know how you were diverted
You were perverted too
I don't know how you were inverted
No one alerted you.

These were two verses from a demo version of the song that didn't make the final recorded version:

"I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
Problems you sow are the troubles you're reaping
Still my guitar gently weeps
I look at the trouble and hate that is raging
While my guitar gently weeps
As I'm sitting here, doing nothing but ageing
Still my guitar gently weeps"

And then this verse which came from another take of the song and is now included on the Love Album

"I look from the wings at the play you are staging
While my guitar gently weeps
As I'm sitting here doing nothing but ageing
Still my guitar gently weeps"
"I wrote While My Guitar Gently Weeps at my mother's house in Warrington. I was thinking about the Chinese I Ching, the Book of Changes... The Eastern concept is that whatever happens is all meant to be, and that there's no such thing as coincidence - every little item that's going down has a purpose.
While My Guitar Gently Weeps was a simple study based on that theory. I decided to write a song based on the first thing I saw upon opening any book - as it would be a relative to that moment, at that time. I picked up a book at random, opened it, saw 'gently weeps', then laid the book down again and started the song." GH
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.i don't know any other music genre, where the bass is left alone, left exfoliating married to the drums, and the guitar? there's no such a thing as a rhythm guitar section in blues... the guitar is consrtantly married to solo... to a sense of orthography... best represented by ´ (the acute accent) without an o: to cream out a "hidden" u, i.e.: ó... or a cedilla (¸) bound to a c: ç to form the greek sigma (ς) - e.g. garçon... waiter, waiter: i'll just wait... that's how i see the blues guitar... the rhythm guitar isn't there, the bass is married to the drums... but the blues guitar keeps the rhythm in a "funny" way... pair up john lee ****** with lightnin' hopkins (on the piano)... and you... keep rhythm, by working solo accents into the rhythm set by the bass and drums... you rhythm by a continous sparring with the solo - you solo by ensuring your remain in the confines of chord, or something much -esque to a chord... milk, cream & alcohol... again and again: the blues... oh my dear the blues... where the rhythm of the guitar is kept with constant soloing... sometimes engaging with the bass and the drums for a reference check of rhythm... but mostly: solo the whole **** through... but it's not the sort of soloing associated with hair metal of the 1980s jerking-off for performance art piquance... sometimes the solos come in the form of chords... it's like i said already... layers:

         waiter -   garçon
                                 and garcon

blues guitar? the latter...
                                             solo accents...
rhythm of syllables: gar-çon
                              but mostly gar-con
                                                         ­  (¸)
since the bass and drums rhythm section
is so perfected in the blues,
the guitar is allowed to do what the hands
want owned by the devil...
        a thorough solo to keep the rhythm...
the one genre of music
where the solo works like a rhythm...
     instead of that in between section
of showing off
between verse chorus verse chorus solo chorus
standard of rock...

     another freedom given to the blues guitar?
the rhythm set by the vocals,
of repeating lyrics...
hell... if someone is going to sing
and play at the same time...
                  why explore lyrics as some sort
of narrative... ping-pong along
with the freedom of the itchy fingers...
by having no real verse,
and no real chorus...
                just a steadied momentum...
        and you really need to drink to appreciate
the blues...
                   just like all the hippies
will tell you that dropping acid enchances your
chances of enjoying the 13th floor elevators
or jefferson airplane...
              i don't know which is better these days:
jazz or blues?
sure as **** not rap...
                       and they say the slave trade
was all bad... sorry...
      without these west africans budding
in h'america... i'd still have a clarinet shoved
up my ***... or folk songs...
                  or mozart's woodwind imitating...
or vivaldi's *******' worth of spring...
yes, and we all know that Idi Amin was white...
wasn't he? who died peacefully while
under asylum in saudi arabia...
           Idi Amin was white! oh come on!
he was the last king of sctoland!
              on a side:
   they were picking cotton...
             well... at least they weren't working
the ******* coalmines... where they now?

ever watch that video
of milo
ilhan omar
david horowitz's west
coast retreat?

where is the old milo
gone to?
anyone pick
up on the heavy breathing?

there's the stag ***
of only 2 years prior?
he's not here...

         i was never into making
only because i just liked
those japanese godzilla
movies from the late 80s...

and i'm still a sucker
for modern pop,
           mabel - don't call me up...
huge, huge sucker
for the expected reaction
to pop music...
synch. vocals and
a very limited circumstance
of lyrical poverty...

sucker... might as well
don a dunce hat...
on the ibernian peninsula
it's also called
a *capirote
and **** gets freaky...

i agree...
the northern crusades,
the polacks became christened
in 962...
   the teutonic knights
were ready
to explore lithuania...
we were about to allign
ourselves with them,
ergo: defend them...

            the concept
of reconquista came after
the crusades...
         i'm pretty sure it came
           jihad is reconquista...
worded differently...
   is it? the crusades were one
     jihad = reconquista...
         the current form of jihad?
it's like crusading...
     to claim a jihad is to claim
reclaiming lost lands,
there must be some muslim genius
who could come up with
a counter term to jihad:
the jihad on the offensive...
rather than on the defensive...
we need some muslim genius
to come up with a conquering
ideology of islam...
   umayyad script...

i'm reading into the video
and i'm like:
is he angry...
       or is he simply scared?
all that heavy breathing...
maybe it's both?
   do i "think" about
throwing him from
a roof... are you sane?
as they say:
in a mad mad world,
the only sane people
                    are the madmen...

talk about memes finally
coming across "genetic"
                why are all the "liberals"
and "progressives"
so surprised by mutation
creeping into memes?
doesn't that usually happen
with genes?
so... what's with all the outrage...
if memes exist outside
of the biological reality
of genes,
then... surely,
any counter-thought
from the est. order is equivalent
to a mutation, isn't it?

               so... what's the outrage
    well if genes are going
to by hijacked by a mutation,
why would memes be immune
to a mutation,
akin to the o.k. hand sign?
you want a script?
i learned this at primary school,
but you need two hands
in tow:

   (right hand RH,
left hand LH,
   thumb TH
         index I
      ******* MF
        ring finger RF
pinky P)...

and now the motion

   RH (I + MF hand down) slap on the
the LH palm of the open hand...
   RH (I + MF hand up) slap
on the LH palm of the open hand...
RH (I + MF
               V shaped insertion
of the V shape into the LH's
      clenched fist of RH slammed
on the open palm of the LH...
clenched RH with an extended TH
poiting toward caesar's favour
in the coliseum (thumb's up)
moving away from the LH open

   why, don't, you, ****, off...
primary school,
some of the kid's parents
must have taught them this sequence
when their children told them
that some foreigner ******
was attending primary school
with them...

                   poor milo though...
notably in that video...
           he's either really angry...
or he's ******* himself...

i'm still left with this sign language...
i don't even know if it's correct...
a kevin spacey "conundrum"...
i'm not exactly going to, *******,
am i?
                knitting and picking
points of criticism...
   made easy:
   no niqab, no turban,
   no copper skin,
             no black skin...
no wonder my fellow countrymen
are leaving
with a massive F          and a U
from this island...
                    good for them...
if i was sane enough,
i'd also leave...
      but given that i'm also a dual-citizen...
         milk the ***** for
her last worth...
    this language...
                    the people are another story,
but my lover affair with
this language is exactly
I remember it like yesterday
50 years back, more or less
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She sang songs about rebellion
of love and hate and less
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

The bar was almost empty
Most nights it was I guess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

I remember when she saw me
We connected, I confess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

Word spread out about her
She was primed to have success
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

An agent came and watched her
A low life lizard known as Jess
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

Promises were made to her
She heard his pitch, and she said yes
She was singing with an old guitar
She wore a faded yellow dress

I saw her climb the charts that year
She was a shell, a real hot mess
She no longer had an old guitar
She now wore hot pants, not a dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
She burned bright as a comet
She was there, and then...was done

You could see she was a puppet
A golden goose for lizard Wes
She no longer had an old guitar
She now wore hot pants, not a dress

I heard she died, an overdose
I wasn't shocked, I must confess
They buried her in Hollywood
She wore a faded yellow dress

She lit up the world
In 1971
I remember her old guitar
And her faded yellow dress
Cam Stoker May 2016
My grandfather is the reason for my interest in guitar. I once strummed the strings of one of his many collector acoustics and electrics, even a dobro, and loved every moment. Grandpa Al taught me the G chord, and from then on I was hooked. He signed me up for classes with a bluegrass instructor in my early teens, and I went to a few sessions, but I had rock n roll at heart.
   I stole my grandfather’s 12-string acoustic guitar in my mid-teens, on a journey to Seattle to be rebellious and to get drunk freely and spare for change on the side of the road. It was a big mistake. I broke several strings of the guitar on the hitchhiking part of the expedition. In a small suburb just outside of Seattle, a man walked up to me, and asked me if I could play. I tried my best with what I had, and he took me into the guitar shop across the street to spend fifty dollars on refurbishing my grandfather’s guitar.
   I played the guitar on the streets of Seattle for drug and alcohol money. I was offered a record deal with some people I met on the street and I was too ****** up to play. They passed me up. I slept near the harbor one night, and made a terrible mistake. I smashed the guitar and left it on the top of a trash can downtown the following morning. That day, I hitched back to Olympia.
   When I got back to my home town, I snuck over to my grandmother’s house and crept into the guest room door in the courtyard. I had been gone for just short of a week. She heard me come in and came knocking on the door angrily, which I had locked. She became afraid and called the cops. Knowing this, I tried to jet out of there and ran into a nearby police vehicle that immediately pulled me over, arrested and booked me. I got out several days later, and never told my grandparents the truth about what happened to the guitar. They asked several times.
Seán Mac Falls May 2015
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.

I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?

Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.

At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.

My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.

What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.

My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.

Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.

Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.

Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.

My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.

At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.

I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2015
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.

I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?

Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.

At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.

My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.

What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.

My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.

Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.

Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.

Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.

My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.

At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.

I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Alan Brown Jun 2016
Underneath the swaying hickory tree,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though his song crumples in the sweltering
Southern breeze, he continues to strum
His guitar strings with a zealous passion,
Expelling each song lyric outward from the
Disconsolate depths of his mourning heart
In hopes that someone, somewhere will listen.

Within the confines of his cluttered garage,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though an irritated sister bangs violently
On the door, he continues to play unperturbed
As his three bumbling friends dance clumsily
To the crooked melody and his younger
Brother rolls on the grimy floor in uncontrollable
Laughter at the screech of a leaky note.

In the bustling, sullied streets of the city,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though passers by attempt to avoid eye contact,
Whipping out their sleek smartphones and burying
Their faces in their screens as they hurry past him,
He continues to penetrate their eardrums with his
Dissonant ballads, pausing only to collect pennies
Thrown in sympathy at his worn, weathered feet.

In the Marlboro stench of a crumbling nightclub,
He plays his Gibson guitar.

Though some customers, unsettled by the cheap alcohol flowing
Pugnaciously through their veins, heckle him relentlessly,
His guitar continues to erupt with an unapologetic
Persistence, rattling the stomachs of even the
Sober clients into a nauseous, drunken ailment.

And now, despite the aching calluses ingrained in his fingertips,
The bumps and bruises deriding his cherished instrument, and
The overbearing lights irradiating him from the high iron canopy,
He continues to pour each poignant lyric from within him, just as he
Has always done, Letting each of his fingers dance from
String to string, and every verse arouse into graceful takeoff.

As he reaches the final verse of his final song, he pauses abruptly,
And listens to melodious, emphatic voices
Reciting each lyric and bursting into jubilant applause.

In the limelight of a thousand adoring eyes,
He still plays that Gibson guitar!!!
Antino Art Sep 2020
I suspect that if I was taller,
I'd get laid more.

Think Basketball: I'd shoot my shot
over her friend zone defense and score.
Her weak knees would wobble at
my every move.

And there’s research to prove it:
the female psyche is hard
wired to conflate height with power.
Leadership. Responsibility.
Extra large shoes.
As if size mattered
more than say,
as a true measure
of the lengths I'd go for the people I love.

Still, if I was taller,
I'd have an evolutionary edge.
I'd play the game
like a guitar.
Because guitar gets girl, right?

Picture this:
me strumming at heart strings
under the lights of a coffeehouse stage,
a tall post-modern Troubadour
with say, an east European or French accent.

A Filipino with a French accent:
how baller would that be!

I'd be unstoppable.
I’d have fans. Groupies.
Her phone number.
And the decency of a reply
to my text.

I’ll give the crowd what they came to see:
the tousled hair and rugged eyes,
the unshaven charm that makes her
want more by appearing to care less.

Hard to get: that’s what the crowd wants me to play
on that guitar
I barely know how to use.

(But I’m trying, right?)

yo who is it she's really after,
because that vertically privileged
guitar hero
sounds nothing like me.

I wish I was taller (high chord)
so she'd see me.
Because I am tired
of being turned
into a ghost
writing songs
for an empty room.

Guitar gets girl.

If thats true,
I suspect she won't get me
because maybe this isnt
the sound I'm supposed to make.
We'd just be pretending
to strike a chord on
strings attached
to a dissonant tune.
We'd play each other out:
a one hit wonder
on a radio station:

Guitar gets girl.

My nice guy cover falls flat.
My Asian appearance falls short
of the socio romantic standard she
is conditioned to fall for

Guitar gets girl
Same song. Play on.

And forget accompaniment (Ditch guitar)

All I need is a pen
to write lyrics
for my new single.

I’ll start a one-man indie band
and swoon in solitude
over who I sound like
on my own.
(Strum Flourish)
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2016
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.

I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?

Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.

At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.

My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.

What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.

My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.

Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.

Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.

Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.

My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.

At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.

I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
GENIE May 2020
I long for my old guitar
I'm no rock or pop star
But a broken soul
Seeking to be whole
I long to play my old guitar
Alone on the road with mud for tar
In the shack building I'll stay awhile
Where life is no more than a mile
I long for my old guitar
Nothing wrong with the new one named peter
But I'm one with my old guitar
My excesses cannot be shun by peter
I long to play my old guitar
It's old tune still without mar
Tells me if I've come this far
Just a mile, I'll touch the star
I long for my old guitar
My old friend and adviser
Whatever it says, I'll say yes sir
And it tells me to find glory in my scar
Though the storms around me roar
Though the waves against me soar
Though life be cold as Mars
Though I be falling from the effiel tower
Though u be caged with a wild boar
Though strength fails,and I have no power
Though I have A newer better peter
Though life breaks me with terrible shatter
No matter what, it's no matter,
Even if condemned as a matyr
I'll still long for my old guitar
Whose tune unlike that of Peter
Says truth that's bitter
Life's a mile, then hereafter
Checkpoints are chaos and disaster
No more than a millimeter
These checkpoints may your character alter
Or even make you better
How you handle them,says what comes after
If you must win and become master
Defy these gods here, and hereafter
If we think positively time and time after
Think right now, you'll do right later
Think wrong now, and you're a time rigged disaster
Which happens sooner or later
There are things you can't alter
So beware what you sacrifice on what altar
Find what your will always muster
Your life depends on it like water
Never forget God, never ever,
A brother, foe, or sister
Who helped you in disaster
Disaster may be but a nanometer
Many miles it has shattered
Many more it will shatter
Still it can make you better
If only you listen to my old guitar
It's tunes sweet, truth bitter
You will emerge better,
Now and in the hereafter.
I love my guitar though I know not how to play it well yet.
I love poetry,and hope to master its every set
Shari Forman Mar 2013
A sound better and livelier as ever startled me. Baffled and unaware of my surroundings, my eyes slowly opened, viewing my irresistible grandmother’s hand gently touching my cheek. Listening carefully, I noticed a beautiful sound coming from her voice. The warm-hearted, lovable lady warmly smiled down at me as my smile formed into the shape of a crescendo, getting larger and wider, finally to a laugh of pure joy. I knew one thing was certain to be true; I fell in love with the intriguing sounds bit by bit.
I awoke to the sight of my father playing his guitar at a medium volume. The sound of the instrument inspired me and motivated me to follow him. I lie in my crib listening intently to the various sounds coming from the guitar. It was almost morning, yet I thought it was later in the morning because my light was on its maximum strength. I watched his fingers move very quickly on the guitar, yet the sounds were beautiful.
“Good morning my love,” said my father smiling at me. “Did you have a good sleep, my love?” he said.
“Pno,” I said on my very own.
“What did you say my love?” said my father startled and impressed that I had just muttered my first word at age one. His smile was soothing in my opinion. His eyes became lively and big with complete shock and joy.
“Po neo.”
“Piano!” said my father ecstatic at the moment.
Considering music was his dream, he wanted me to take part in the wonderful career as well. He set his guitar down against my light blue-colored wall. Then my father went to my small rocking chair and sat down. He put his face in the palm of his hands. I thought he was crying and intimidated by me, but then I realized he was very proud of me and believed I would go far in life. He stood up and picked me up gently and set me down on a chair next to my piano. He smiled and embraced me with affection. I knew my father’s name by heart but I couldn’t manage to say it. It was William. He started playing simple notes on the keys with his thick, masculine hands. He played six notes, all with important meaning and full-care. He motioned for me to take part playing as well.
“No, no. You’ve done it all wrong my love. You must listen with ease and act how you feel,” said my father with concern.
I started weeping large sobs as my father talks in a loud tone with disapproval.
“What, my dear?” says William concerned.
I pressed a key on the piano and roar with laughter.
“You’ve got it my love,” said my father in a soft, mellow tone.
I then take again to the keyboard, this time with full confidence playing again. My father then sang a song while playing the piano. I didn’t know the name of the song, but he told me it was a song he had written after. That inspired me to write my own songs and play the piano and possibly the guitar.
“This is the world, I hail from.  The sorrows and pity we might feel for each other. But arised a God who’s mighty strong. Who turns our sorrows into pride and joy, and this is where I am hail from,” sang my father very emotional.
“You’ll go far my love, I promise you. One day music will save you...” said my father.
…28 years later those words stuck with me…
I was off to work going about my usual day. I was thirty one now and living with my girlfriend in our apartment. I still lived in my hometown, California. Whenever I thought of my hometown, the song “Hometown California,” came to me automatically. I’d just start singing. I wouldn’t consider myself an excellent singer, but that was just a hobby of mine. I was phenomenal at playing the piano and very good at playing the guitar in the eyes of many people.
…When the weekend finally came, I found the time on Saturday morning to fit a tennis match in with one of my good friends, Troy.  As we rally back and forth, something caught me by surprise. A grey-haired man about twice my age had an awkward looking smile that lit up his whole face. I was baffled at the bizarre stranger. He came up to me and tapped me on the shoulder.  I looked at him.
“Hello young fellow. My name is Harry Hayfold and I was wondering if you would like to train with me to become a professional tennis player.” said the man.
‘No thanks man, I’m just playing a match with my friend. Thanks anyways.” I said and I went back to rallying.
“Young fellow, please. You’ve great skill as I see,” said the older guy eager to say something more.
“I don’t think I want to train for hours for a chance at becoming a pro- tennis player. Thanks for the compliment though,” I said a little annoyed.
“It would be your loss sir.” said the man.
I just continued rallying with my friend. My friend looked baffled as well and felt bad for the guy. I didn’t care if he was still standing there; I just wanted to play. When we were finished rallying, we started a match. As I throw the ball up to serve, he shouts something right next to me.
“Would you please just listen to what I have to say?!” said the man angry.
“Oh, my god; could you leave us alone now?  I’m not doing the training classes; I have a job. I work in a music store, okay!” I said very annoyed.
My friend came over to my side of the tennis court and asked what the problem was to the man.
“I can’t stand people like you. You’re a liar and a creep.” said John.
“Which music store do you work at?” asked the man.
“It’s called Music Academy. Can you leave us alone now?” I said perturbed.
“I’m very sorry to have bothered you.” said the man.
“Yeah,” I said without any enthusiasm.
“No wait, he’ll be honored to do the classes with you sir. He needs money anyway,” said John’s friend Troy.
“What are you doing?!” I said to my friend with fury. “I will be fine financially once I get signed professionally which will happen troy. It will definitely happen. This guy… He’s out of his mind,” I said confident.
“What did you say your name was?” said the man.
“John.” I said.
“Excellent Johnathon.”“Meet me here on these same tennis courts tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. Don’t be late.” said Harry.
I smashed my racket as hard as I could on the ground with full force, releasing all of my stress and anger out on the court.
“Alright John,” said Troy with pity on him. We’ll hang out again soon.” He said and left.
“Crapola!”  I yelled in mid-air after everyone left.
The next day I don’t even consider going to the psychotic man’s tennis class. Instead, I make my way to work early.
As I’m exiting my shift at night, I noticed someone standing behind a wall. And there it was… I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Oh, no,” I whispered to myself.
“Hello Jonathon. You’re session was at eight am this morning. Have you forgotten?” he said concerned.
“Listen, I don’t think this whole business with the excessive training classes to make me into what I will never become and putting my job in jeopardy of getting fired, is going to work out,” I said with a smile.
“I’ve watched you work in the store John,” said the man concerned.
“Oh jeez, now I’ve got a personal stalker. This is gonna be interesting.” I whispered.
“How much do you make a week? I’ve come to sought you don’t look happy working there and want to become into a real musician.” said Harry.
I was just about to completely lose my mind when I took a deep breath and bit my tongue to avoid making a scene. My face turned so red.
“Once I get a record deal with the piano, then things will be even better for me. But as of now, I’m very happy, just not super happy. And you know what else, I’m so happy I began music because I couldn’t get much happier. Oh, the glory of being a musician would make me so happy. And you barging randomly into my life and ******* up everything… well I couldn’t get much happier!” I managed to scream at the end of my statement.
“Come with me John. Please let me help you find a way to forget that you’re not a musician.” said the man.
“My father was my inspiration. He’s dead now, yet I’m following in his footsteps because I want to.” I said.
“I see… I’m very sorry for your loss John,” said Harry with a fake sad expression on his face.
This man was driving me up the wall by now. I had had it with his monkey business.
There was a long pause…
“So tomorrow at eight?” I said completely unsatisfied, yet willing to experiment with what he had in mind to teach me.
“Yes, oh yes that would be just perfect John,” said Harry ecstatic.
We both started walking to our homes. He had walked rather quickly for an older guy, and me, slowly like I’d just had a pancreas failure.
When I arrived at my apartment, my girlfriend wasn’t there.
“Jenny, I’m home”… “Jenny, you there?” I said baffled at the silence. “Jennyyyyy”, I said playfully. Jennifer… Is dinner set toniiiight?” I said as I smiled at my own humor.
All of a sudden, the phone rang, which startled me and made me uninterested at this point to answer. I answered the phone anyway.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, this is a patient of Jennifer; is Jenny there?”
“No she isn’t at the moment,” I said unsure of my answer.
“Ok, thank you,” she said and hung up.
“You’re welcome,” I said sarcastically after she already hung up.
I walked into our bedroom to take my work clothes off and put pajamas on. The door was closed which got me a little concerned and angry. I walked in the bedroom and turned on the light.
“What the hell is going on here?! Get off my girlfriend you crazy *******!” I yelled.
“No John, please stop. He’s my fiancé John,” said Jenny annoyed with me.
“What are you talking about Jennifer?” I said raging with anger.
“Listen john, I’m sorry. Things weren’t working out between us recently and things just clicked between… well Steve and I.” she said.
“ I can’t believe what I am seeing right now,” said john through tears of disappointment and anger.
“Things weren’t working out between us John_”
“Yeah, I think you mentioned that already.” said John crying hysterically.
“Well don’t be sorry. Be sorry at yourself because I did nothing but treat you nicely. What happened to us Jenny? We were so in love with each other. I can’t believe what I am seeing.” I said.
My girlfriend my starting to cry now and as she began to speak I walked out stomping on the floor and slammed the front door as I exited my apartment.
“The next morning John arrived at the tennis courts that he visited two days ago with his friend.
“I’m here; let’s start playing tennis,” I said calmly.
“Wait, wait. I have not yet explained the concepts.” said Harry.
“Yeah, yeah, concepts. I know,” I said annoyed.
I picked up a tennis ball and hit it over the fence as hard as I could.
“Excellent work there John,” said Harry sarcastically.
“That was just a warm up professor. Now here comes glory,” I said about to ****** someone.
I slam my pre-broken racket on the floor so hard that it cracked in half. The man was outraged at the horrifying scene.
“I missed work this morning for this crapola?!” I yelled.
John, you’re crazy right now. Sit down and relax!” said Harry firmly.
“Music is all I want and you’re taking that away from me.” I said
“I apologize sir; I don’t think I want to do this anymore.” I said.
“Anymore? You haven’t even started playing yet,” said Harry with a little chuckle.
“Ok, fine; I’ll play.” I said. “I don’t have a racket now.” I said ashamed and guilty.
“That’s not my problem.” said Harry. “If you no longer have a racket, I will let you have my spare racket if you practice drills catching the ball precisely with only your hands.”
“Ha, you’re kidding right? That was a good one Harry; very good.” I said.
I tap him on the shoulder.
“See you tomorrow.” I said.
“Will you stop acting arrogant and negative for once John! I was serious about the hand drill.” said Harry.
“Ok then.” I said.
Harry got on the side opposite from my side. He took a bunch of ***** and out them in his pockets.
“Now John…I want you to catch the ball wherever I throw it okay?” said Harry.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I said.
He fed the ball over the net and John caught the ball wherever he threw it. When he was getting exhausted from the number of ***** being fed to him, he took the ball and smashed it on the ground.
“What in heaven’s name has come over you?” asked the man terrified.
“Nothing, except the fact that my girlfriend is now getting married with her new fiancé and was having an affair in my bedroom. That is it ladies and gentleman, the show is now over,” I said sarcastically.
“Oh, haha…hahahahahahaahahaa.” Harry chuckled.
Harry burst out laughing.
“John, John, I’m sorry. The way you said it made me laugh, that’s all.” said Harry.
I run up to the old man about ready to **** him (not literally) when he started coughing. He fell down to his knees holding his chest.
“John,” he whispered trying to grasp more oxygen.
“What happened Harry? Are you alright?” I asked nervously panicking.
I ran off the court to get my cell phone in my tennis bag on one of the park benches and called an ambulance. I then run back to Harry.
“I’m calling an ambulance for you Harry. It’ll be okay,” I said about to cry from the sight of what just happened.
When the ambulance came, he was put on a stretcher by several paramedics and taken to the nearest hospital. I don’t bother calling my ex-girlfriend, knowing I was through with her insecure ways and immaturity level. I drove to the hospital following the ambulance as I drove. I arrived at the hospital minutes after him and sat in the waiting room for over two hours with his son who was about my age, if not older. The doctor came out looking down with tears in his eyes. He ripped off his glasses and fell to his knees. He stood up…
“I’m very sorry. There was nothing more I could precede on doing,” said the doctor.
The doctor walked away looking very upset and disappointed in himself and what happened. I turned to his son and saw such shock and disappointment in him.
“He was a very mysterious, outgoing person and a great father,” said his son through tears.
I nodded my head and smiled.
“My father tried to teach you basic steps of becoming a tennis player, but it wasn’t for a career. Trust me. He wanted you to learn something new. That’s all. He can be difficult at times, I know, but he is a very courageous man and loves helping others,” said his son smiling at me.
I was shocked. I was living an okay life with music. But now I realized that this man inspired me to follow chase after what you want. He taught me that things may be challenging in life, but you can overcome them if you work hard and love what you do in life. Even through financial problems, I realized that you can still achieve your dreams and it is never too late to start a record deal. His son left the hospital before me without mentioning what his name was. I believed the Harry and his family were a mystery, but a good mystery. I showed up to the music store the next morning and the manager of the store had exhilarating news for me. I had gotten signed by a famous musician! This was the best day of my whole entire life and I could not have asked for anything more in life.
“Signed by Buddy Clark, I present to you your record deal. Sign this and you have a chance to work with this talented man for a chance at achieving your dream John. Well done, we’re all very proud of you,” said the manager of the store.
All of the workers in the store started cheering me on and applauding my superb work and efforts. I was now in tears of pure joy and I felt worth something major for the first time.
“Thanks a lot Jason,” I said to the manager of the store. “This is a gift; it means the world to me,” I said as I gave him a hug.
I realized life is not all about tennis or music. It’s the important things in music that make you feel out of this world amazed. People may have a strong opinion about something they love, but never take a person for granitite.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
why doesn’t english phoneticism diacritic the non-trill r, or why doesn’t it diacritic the non-harking h? i wonder... where’s all the nation’s intelligence gone to... investing 650 billion in the ant mound that’s london? the politics blame it on the eastern european... ‘never blame it on the chinese or the arabs... they have the investments to come with boom & bust coordinates of new york’s 1920s hopes... followed up with depression.’ but oddly enough no recession in poland... perhaps because the poles have all the salt and lost all the dollars’ worth of edible mince pie (while the irish only lost ***** in hazelnut hangover forgetfulness on the titanic minding the class system of who got the lifeboats) - **** me, i’ve turned into a welsh longbows’ man with the famous V of agincourt... i’m not even welsh... but i’m assuredly an abacus: count to two sheep flights of suicide and towing two snorkel sneezes worth of bubbles before dozing off; ah... the celebrated humanity.*

that’s how it works... the r that lost the wheel and the ballerina twirl,
and the rolling-on requirements of a diacritic mark,
since all the available ones are inadequate,
and the h needs surgery to be honest...
it’s hardly a hay stack... as is the gnome eager to learn
about gnosticism and u-boats...
but did i tell you this one story that might
make you laugh?
in my post brain haemorrhage psychosis
i bought a martin & co. acoustic guitar for £600
while trading in a mandolin i bought cleaning toilets
in an edinburgh nightclub getting more than i expected
from a **** groper... sold for £25 second hand which i didn’t take
and just left it there due to honour
(who'd empty ****** in beer bottles from a toilet
getting harassed by a gay
in order to buy a £70 mandolin to play
only one song and then sell it for £25 and take the money?!)...
no, really, the english r needs diacritic markings
to distinguish it from the other european arms and arses
so this martin & co.’s guitar i bought
and took to my ex-girlfriends house...
which i left outside... and... oddly enough
in a guitar sheath the guitar suddenly spontaneously
decided to itch and break up...
my ex-girlfriend’s father said the cold did it...
he was always the handyman to break things...
then i started to head-**** the guitar until i managed
to weave a hole in it to sound more hollow...
so i fixed it in the end... a blind man could play it...
my ex-girlfriend’s father ended up as a nutcracker in
the mental health unit for a month while
england rejoiced when the pantomime season came along
in the local theatres - plates were thrown and dogs were walked...
like tonight... me in cognitive conversation:
‘hey stranger’s dog across the street, why you pausing
tail waggling and pavlov ready for a treat
and trying to imbue a french revolution’s cause off the leash?’
religiously you're reversing the due pundit of prayer
for the thing suffering... christianity almost feeds
the notion of prayer unto the continually suffering...
you wouldn't see prayer so easily given to
zeus ******* hera on the chair... would you?
pathetic, even morbid perverts of poverty
******* out the blood from the man...
if he deserved it he deserved it... it's not so easily
grecian polished into the realm of the undeserved...
the classical philosopher inquired: the gods exist...
but why are you sacrificing animals for their existence?
the modern philosophers inquired: the god exists...
but why are you sacrificing your emotions for their existence?
i will not sacrifice a goat on the altar...
but that was easier given the fact you're feeling
such sibyl s & m with that thing dangling on two planks of wood;
didn't i write of the malachi heresy...
the heresy that invaded monotheism and said
john smith postcode *** *** from the 21st century
will always be john smith from london from the 16th century?
malachi's heresy concerning the reincarnation of elijah
decisively spoke of the fractioned hebrew god... it spoke of 1
as 1/2, 1/3, 1/4, 1/5, 1/6, 1/7, 1/8, 1/9 etc.
i can't believe that... like hegel equated in
the book marx digested and rebelled against, i = i,
malachi you propagator & instigator of christianity and islam!
malachi! to the greeks & romans with you tied to st. paul!
(even allen ginsberg mentions this equation
in one of his poems: i am i, old father fisheye that
begat the ocean, the worm at my own ear,
the serpent turning around a tree;
kant and 0 as negation, hegel and the equals sign as being,
naturally ≠ has to imply non-being);
not building idols of forearm and knee for worship is what islam
got away with replacing them with the worship of words...
i'd hate to worship that night idol dictated by a man
who couldn't read... it's almost like a crow hunching
next to a statue of ramses ii about
where r a m s e s trivialised the six pack of the abdomen
there were the letters r a m s e s without definite form
to concern the suckling of favourite idol mantras...
idol holy word hum hum ham ahead of you...
thou shalt knot the casual reference of muhammad
in the corner shop for thou shalt not offend
the goosebumps sensation i feel when i hear the sounds...
and so it was... the only fear of death i have
is to have lived to being aged 72... and then died;
death sooner... death... sooner!
my parents die i'm moving to the true england, up north,
to liverpool or manchester... **** the southern fairies
from dubai... i rather move to the faroe islands to be honest...
and **** a dozen orcas for a fry-up and the digestion of winter...
i rather **** time occupying the space in greenland
among the icy chinese known as eskimos;
i'd fit in among the føroyar kindreds... i love the doom & gloom
and hate the sun & tan of globalisation's adventures
with advertisements and juggling tourism
among terrorism's fictive narratives.
amal Aug 2020
The Story of Gypsy of Wind

dust has dissipated
When it rained
Gypsy sang
With his guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
The last farewell song ...
As he crosses the Earth
Without thinking of a terminal to reach

A fugitive from modernity.
From every paved road ..
Of all the twinkling constellations ..
From the noise of cities ..
From the gloom of government buildings.
The gypsy diverges,
Evading sandy roads.
He meets the boys of the villages ..
He sings and they dance..
He passes near the peasant women with red hair covers.
He plays love tunes for them.
Until their cheeks flush ...
He meets the shepherds ... and avoids them ...
he receives the wide plains
With bright eyes
And on his back
He hung up his guitar, which he inherited from his father.

The gypsy meets the girl of his dreams.
But he leaves her to continue trekking.
Gypsy knows no boundaries ..
He does not know what warm rooms mean.
He does not know what daily work means.
He does not know what school means ..
Because he does not want to learn ..
Rather, he should live on the road.

The gypsy has no identity papers.
But he does not know what the meaning of stained papers and seals.
The gypsy does not know power ..
when he meets the mayor of the village
he Whoops:
Why do they obey you when they are free ..
The gypsy knows no hunger ..
Because he eats anything in nature.
Flowers and butterflies ..
Rivers mud ...
Then he pulls his guitar from his back.
And he goes on trekking
He plays a song that tells about a dream
With the warmth of a beautiful woman's chest.
Gypsy travels after the spring.
as if he tied with a rope..
He does not like winter ..
He does not like summer ..
He does not like autumn ..
Like birds in the sky ..
Gipsy follows the scent of silt and nectar.
He points with his finger to the distant horizon:
- It rained there..
He plays a rain song ...

What do you have, gypsy?
The bar girl asks him
In transit hours standing
He says: What do you mean by the word "you have"?
The gypsy has nothing ..
Because he has everything.
He has his freedom ..
A girl spends a night with him
Then she expels him from her arms in the morning
So he takes up his guitar
And he sings in tears over his broken heart.
Passing through plains and mountains ..
To where he does not know

Truck drivers meet him
They offer to get him to where he wants..
But he refuses ..
He doesn't want to miss a moment without being in the heart of nature ...
Consuming time with his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who does not know him ...
But what his mother told him before her death
when they were traveling on the way ..
He buries her ..
And he prays for her soul..
Without knowing which god he is praying to..
He smiles ..
And he goes on its eternal journey

When crossing forests..
He is surrounded by hyenas.
He pulls his guitar and sings.
The hyenas watched him in amazement.
they remain amazed as they snaps his flesh..
And he is still singing
Playing his guitar
His guitar, which he inherited from his father ..
His father who never knew him ..
Rohit Rohan May 2014
We are like two guitar picks
They are all so unique
Different shapes
Different sizes
Different textures
Different smells
Different feels
Different beings
But we
We are identical
Just like each other
And we play music that is so different
No one gets it
No one figures it why
But so it is
And only we can get what flows out of it
Strumming along in dischord
And harmony too
You’re just like me
And I am just like you
But we have our own guitars
And that is where our melody flows
The music all so complete
All so perfect
That it makes you just not believe
Coz things cannot be perfect
For nothing ever is complete
For beauty lies in incompleteness
And imperfection
And we with our guitars
Are just so ****** perfect
That it bleeds me to see us that way
If only guitar picks like us
Were left alone with each other
And never touched or disturbed
We wouldn’t get around to do anything
For the two of us
Are of the same kind
We can’t get music out of us
Or each other
Coz we are no guitars
And we won’t have them
Or anything else
But just each other
Two guitar picks
With the same lives
Shape and design
The only two unique
That no one else can match
That no one else can get
And there we lie together in the corner
No one to ruffle us
Just left to ourselves
And we lie there
By our sides
And we can’t play no music
And we can’t strum a song
Coz we are two guitar picks
Without nothing else
Without no guitars
But only ourselves
Which is just so ****** incomplete
And so imperfect
So mighty beautiful..
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2017
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.

I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?

Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.

At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.

My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.

What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.

My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.

Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.

Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.

Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.

My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.

At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.

I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
Dead Rose One Mar 2018
nobody gets the cancer twice.  
(a blues guitar riff)

blood in the stool
ain’t nobody’s fool,
whent to high school
did not graduate,
but know it wasn’t no thing I ate

scale greets me friendly like,
long lost buddy from yesterday morn,
‘let get right down to it,
let’s see how much less of you borne
leftover alive from the prior day’

spirit spit blood from my gums,
got me a woman, she’s way over town,
woman said I’m brushing with
too hard a brush, alright, alright,
make no fuss, she’s good to me

nobody’s fool whent to school,
though I did not graduate,
a mean riff is better than a
slow moving woman blues cry,
got the strings to do my screaming

doctor is a fan, name is Jimmy,
played music like last time round,
Jimmy-jamming, dancing in the waiting room,
“that cancer got kick, it’s gonna get ya,
think I told ya that about hunner times before”

‘nobody gets the cancer twice,’
an old wives tale for unlucky po’ somofabitches,
do you some tests, tell ya the specifics,
right now, lay, lay down them new tracks,
no quitting time less the good lord comes a-calling’

blues guitar makes a man
cry shiver scream and shake,
progressions licks and tricks,
so you can’t tell what’s making
a grownup man cry and laugh louder

bring me my medicine
bring me my guitar
all I know is how it makes me feel,
oh baby once a night it’s true,
nobody gets the cancer twice
Mike Hauser Jun 2013
I found this old guitar
In a run down thrift shop store
R.J. were the initials scratched into the back
Could this be the guitar of lore

The guitar that Robert Johnson held
When he signed on the dotted line
Here is the music you live for son
But from now on your soul is mine

The very same blues guitar he played
Like there was no tomorrow
Alas tomorrow for him came
Filled with pain and sorrow

I picked up that old guitar
Started out strumming a few simple cords
Laying around all of these years
It sounded sweeter than sin and more

I can't remember ever playing so well
As I watched nimble fingers fly
Don't know how long I'd been in the back
Losing all consciousness of time

When I found the old store keeper
Asked him how much he wanted for my find
He said it looks good on you son
It's all yours...
If you'll sign on this dotted line...
John R Dec 2013
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.

My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.

Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.

She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.

We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.

Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.

The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.

"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".

"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
LD Goodwin Feb 2013
Most every night at the Stowaway Bar,
you can catch the old lounge lizard singer.
With his head full of rhythm and rhyme,
and his fake books full of songs,
he plays his blue guitar
and dreams about a young girl.

He fell in love with the wonderful girl
when she strolled into the bar.
And as he played his new guitar
she told him he was a great singer,
and she loved his beautiful songs
that would reel and ramble and rhyme.

And with every prophetic rhyme
he would sing to the lovely young girl
all of his best love songs,
as if there were no one else in the bar,
except her, the smoke, and the singer,
and the sound of his new guitar.  

But every night when he was through, he'd pack up his guitar
and put away his rhythm and rhyme,
and for awhile he was not that love song singer.
He'd looked around the smoky room for the girl
but she was nowhere in the bar
and all he had left were his tears and his love songs.

She said she loved his songs,
and the way he would play his guitar.
But now the smoke filled up the bar,
and he was out of rhyme.
For he had lost the beautiful girl
who wanted only the singer.

But he was only the singer,
and he was only the songs.
Although he missed the girl
Every night he would tune his blue guitar
and open his sad heart full of rhyme
and fill up the Stowaway Bar 
  And the old lounge lizard singer plays his blue guitar
singing prophetic songs that reel and ramble and rhyme
to a young girl who sits alone at the bar.
Harrogate, TN February 2013
Inspired by the many years I played the Stowaway Lounge in Ft. Walton Beach , FL.  Also a poem here on HP "Breaking Mirrors"  by somethingweknewwasours ....check it out!
XIII Aug 2013
Yes, I want to be your guitar
That guitar that you’ve fallen in love with at first glance
You can’t let it go; you’ve already carved its features in your heart
I would steal its position, if I only had the chance

You tried averting your eyes from it and looked for other one
It was expensive after all, you can’t afford one
But you did all means in the end, just to have it in your hands
If it was me, would you have done everything you can?

Finally, it was all yours, I was happy for you
With that even brighter beaming smile, who would not?
You started spending time together, like a couple would do
And then I started doubting, I am happy for you, right?

You brought it home and even slept with it
Ah! I was so envious, how I wish those arms were wrapped around me
The two of you under the rain, walking against the wind
Whereas I can only write our names under an umbrella, wishing it can be you and me

I dedicated all love songs to you as you composed your songs for it
Expressing your overflowing love, your undying happiness, it was all packaged in the songs
And though I was so hurt, your songs are always on repeat
Listening and undergoing the same excruciating pain all day long

I’m a mere fan, with a paper and a pen on both hopeless hands
You’re shining brightly on the stage with your guitar, a wonderful superstar
I wonder when this stupidity started, but this poem was made because of this great distance
If this unrequited, one-sided feeling will someday reach you, I’ll tell you, I want to be your guitar
Dedicated to Yui Hirasawa of K-On!
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2019
In the corner stands
My blue guitar,
Mirrors my grimace.

I have played you
So like dream was the dear song
Where you playing me?

Your body makes mine
Shudder as I imagine
A woman in my arms.

At the top of your body
Are keys unwound at the ready,
Silver spirals of tunings.

My soul is near hollow
But the blue guitar
Is filling in the foundations.

What makes the blue guitar
So shining in the mundane,
All the world is makeshift.

My fingers wet with you,
What water sounds like,
As it kisses the earth.

Deep in the strings
I summon my being,
Always blue as sheer sky.

Blue guitar, silent, singing,
My fingers ***** your neck,
Never do you scream.

Once I heard music,
The sweetest tabulations
Of sorrows in rosewood.

My fingers ache on steel,
These are your moved guts,
Strings that I borrow.

At an open window,
All the day obtuse,
I hear birds in your vibrations,
Untouched air of blue guitar.

I do not know anything,
Music is lathed on an open fret,
The heart is beating to a note of bliss,
Hole set in the body braced by wood,
Time cuts as it is sectioned, a staff fires,
All the chords are listed in primes,
Is the ear a window or is the eye,
Blind in the choral songs we make,
All things are ephemeral, wonderings,
Variations we work as structure fades,
As the blue guitar is touched, turning light.
“I’d rather be a novelist than a filmmaker.”
“The novel’s dead.”
“Well then I’d rather be dead.” The man said.
“Do you mean that?” asked the woman.
The woman stared blankly. She didn’t want to, but she cringed a bit, and then the man’s face softened up a bit.
“Well, but I suppose I can’t be dead right now, so I’ll just have to be a filmmaker, right?”
The woman smiled.
“Right.” And then she served herself another drink. As she sat back onto the couch, she turned her body so that it faced the man again, and brought her legs up so they rested comfortably beside her waistline. “So tell me, Mr. Famous Director, what’s your next movie going to be about?”
The man finished his whiskey. A dead novelist, he thought. “I don’t know yet.” He said out loud.
In the morning, the man woke up, and the woman was already awake, cooking them both eggs for breakfast. She was also doing work, and had her instrument strapped to her back. The man stood up and walked over.
“Don’t make mine scrambled.” He said. “I hate scrambled eggs.”
The woman turned.
“I’ll make another batch.” She offered.
“Never mind, scrambled will do.”
The woman stopped and thought for a second, and then she swung her guitar back to the front of her body and played a few chords on it. She hummed a tune, and the man ate his eggs, and when she was done humming, she ran to her room and scribbled something onto a small notebook.
“Watch the stove for me.” She warned the man, and he stood up and moved the pan a bit. He turned the gas down and opened the fridge, and took a swig from a carton of orange juice he saw, but there wasn’t much juice left in it, so he finished the carton and threw it out. That night, he would want something to drink besides water, and he would regret that decision, but at the moment, as he saw it, it was the right decision to make.
“When is your next show?” The man asked.
“That’s the night of the premiere.”
The woman stopped her playing and scribbling, and she came over and sat down.
“Oh my god. I forgot.”
“Never mind, I don’t have to go.”
The woman giggled, and got up again.
“That’s silly, of course you’ll go. And I’ll go with you. Besides, I’ll just be at a little coffee shop, and you’ll be at a world premiere! I’ve never been to a world premiere for a film before.”
“You’ve been for something else?”
“No. But I’ve always wanted to go to a premiere.” The woman stopped. The man looked at her, and then picked up the paper, which was on the table, and turned to the sports section. The Knicks had lost again, but the Yankees were on a roll.
“I’ll call to cancel my show now.” The paper came down.
“Don’t do that yet.”
“Why not?”
“Trust me.” The man said. “I might rather go see you.”
The woman smiled because she thought that meant he loved her.

In the afternoon the man went to the bookstore, and he bought himself two novels, a book of poems, and some coffee. After, he walked around Union Square for a while, and looked at all the people on their way to and from work. There was a musician by the statue of George Washington that played guitar and sang like Jimi Hendrix, and he sat down and listened to him for a while. He’d seen him before, and he liked how he played, but since he was shy, he never spoke to the musician, who he called Moonman in his mind (because of a big pair of boots the musician wore, and also because of the way his eyes were – one always facing the earth, and one always facing the sky). The man dropped some money in Moonman’s guitar case, and he walked back to his home on the lower West side of Manhattan. He took the scenic route, because it took longer, and he took his time, because he wanted to.

“It’s going to be big!” raved Ned, the man’s friend and producer. “Real big, man, probably the biggest premiere that we’ve had yet, if you’ll buy it!”
“I buy it. Why not.” The man responded.
“Do you realize what you are doing here?”
“What’s that?”
“You’re blowing up, man!” Ned was ecstatic. “We’ll be rich! Maybe win awards! Who knows man, aren’t you excited?”
The man looked around at the room he was in. He was excited, it was true, but this excitement was buried under a blanket of other emotions. He was morose, he was nervous, and he was overwhelmed, most of all, with a feeling of nothingness. So he had finished a movie, so it was premiering on Thursday, so it was getting good reviews, so he might make some extra money—so what? He thought. Time to move on now, isn’t it?
“Sure.” The man responded. “I’m excited.”
“Well of course you are!” Ned answered. “So are you bringing that chick to the premiere? The brunette, the one that sings?”
“Maybe. She has a show to play that day.”
“Well, so what, tell her to come anyway. She can postpone, can’t she?”
“She could.”
“Good. Unless you’d rather bring somebody else?”
The man stared.
“No, I like her.”
“Good, then!”
“Good. Yes.”

The woman came to visit again, around noon the next day. She brought her instrument, like she always did, and brought some food in a bag also.
“I knew you wouldn’t have eaten.” She said, and she proceeded to take all of the food out, and she was right, thought the man, so he got plates out and had lunch with her. They watched TV and he explained all of the shows to her, because she didn’t have a set herself, and so she didn’t know the plotlines, and after some few hours of watching, the woman played some of her new songs for him. They were beautiful, but more importantly, the man could tell she cared about them. The woman stopped after one song, and she turned the page in her booklet.
“What’s wrong?” The man asked.
“Nothing.” She said. “I just feel weird.”
“Weird about what?”
“Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Is it a song?” asked the man.
“Yeah. Sort of.”
“Well can I hear it?”
“Sure, why not.”
The woman played for the man then, and she played beautifully, and though she never said it, and he never asked, the man was taken by a feeling that the song was really about him. He turned red when he heard it, but he was quiet and never took his gaze off of the woman. She sang timidly, and the man wanted to hug her, but she was protective with her voice, so he sat and listened only. When she was done, she turned away, so that her hair kept him from looking at her eyes, but he reached out, and he brushed it away, and then he kissed her, and didn’t say anything. They went into his room, and they made love, and they came out, and when the man sat down and turned the TV back on, the woman was not offended, but instead sat next to him, and dug her head into the soft patch that stretched between his shoulder and the middle of his rib cage.
“You should play that song at the premiere.” The man suggested.
“I have my show.” The woman retorted. Then, “You told me not to cancel it.”
“I did.”
“Well then.” The man lit a cigarette. “I guess it’s too late now.”
“Do you want me to try?”
“No. It’s okay.”
“Lend me a cigarette?”
The man lent a cigarette to the woman, and lit it for her, and they stopped speaking for a while, until it was time for the man to explain the TV shows again, and he did, even when the woman fell asleep and wasn’t listening anymore.

On the morning of the premiere, the man realized that he had to go, and that he didn’t want to go unless the woman came with him. So he called her up and asked her to cancel her show, and when she told him that she couldn’t, he asked to go over to her place. He found her sitting on her bed, playing guitar and eating carrots. He begged her to go with him, but in the way that people who know each other well beg, which doesn’t look like begging at all, but more like reaffirming things that both parties already know to be true, as if their truth can change and become a new truth through this process.
“So it’s too late, huh? You can’t come with me?”
“I asked you so many times! Now it’s the morning of!”
“You’re right. It’s too late, then, I guess.”
The man was good.
“Don’t do this.”
“What?” the man asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be selfish.”
“But you are, and you know that it’s working.”
“Never mind. I’m sorry. If it’s too late then it’s too late.”
The woman laughed now, and she dropped her head, so that he hair covered her face up and made a tent, where she was safe from him. She brushed a strand back and looked through the space this created, and then she let the strand of hair fall back and seal her up once more. The man lay down.
“I really can’t.” said the woman.
“I’m sorry.” Sighed the man. She kissed him, and he let her, but then he pulled back and closed his eyes. “I don’t really want to go.” He said.
The woman leaned over the man, and this time decided to include him in her tent. She pressed her forehead against his, and when he tried to move, she held him.
“Why are you like this?” She asked him, but he had no answer.
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you hate yourself so much?”
The man pushed the woman’s shoulders back, and released himself from her tent. He wanted to respond, and bite back, but instead he laughed. He started laughing hard, so that he could barely control himself, and after a while, the woman began laughing too. She didn’t know what was going on, but she laughed freely, and when he started to kiss her, she let him, and when he moved to take her clothes off, she only stopped him in the beginning, to make him feel like he had to try. He kissed her all over her body and he looked at her with a look that was mostly grateful, as if she had given him some compliment, but while they made love, and he held her ****, they never spoke even a single word. Afterwards, the man held her, and they both fell asleep on top of the covers.
When he awoke, the man was sweating. It was six o’clock, and he knew he had forgotten to call Ned, but instead of calling, he lay there a bit longer, staring at the ceiling and pretending to still be asleep. The woman woke up too, and she reminded him of the things he had allowed himself to forget, and as she got ready for her show, he put his pants on and made some phone calls.
He called Ned, and set up how he would get to the premiere, and he called his mother to make sure that she and dad had their tickets. He called his sister across the country, and he chatted freely about everything with her, and then he called his best friend Matt to brag about the things that he was doing. Finally, the man got dressed, and left the woman’s place, and when he did, he called Francesca, a girl he’d met a few weeks earlier, and a girl that he was hoping would be able to go to the premiere with him.
Of course, Francesca was, and though she had “nothing to wear”, the man picked her up at nine, and she looked stunning in her dress, though the man barely let her know it. They drove to the premiere, and when they got there, the man was very distant.
“Lighten up, you look miserable.” Commented Ned off to the side. Then, “Where’s the other girl, I thought you liked her.”
“She couldn’t come.” Replied the man.
As the night progressed, the man started to look progressively more miserable. He went from talking only rarely to hardly communicating with anyone at all, and at the end of the screening he got up and left before all the applause had ended. At the after party, he was worse, and though Francesca tried to coax him out to the dance floor for a tune with her, he glumly sat alone at his reserved seat, and drank more.
It didn’t take long for the man to get drunk that way. After his fifth scotch and soda he began to realize how he was acting, but by that time it was too late, and even when he tried to cheer up, it didn’t work. Francesca sat on his lap and made him kiss her and he did, and when she suggested that the two of them go back to the car, he complied; but even then he felt that sting in his stomach that he had been feeling all night. The man said his goodbyes and he went back to the car, and for Francesca’s sake he kissed her, and when they were done, he said he wanted to go home. She offered to come home with him, but he told her that he would rather sleep alone that night. Francesca was upset, but she said she understood.
When the man dropped her off at her house that night, Francesca tried to kiss him one more time. She wanted him to come inside with her, but though he kissed her back for a moment, he pulled away quickly, and asked her to leave. How strange, Francesca thought as she walked back to her house, but for some reason, she was attracted to this peculiarity, and before she went to bed that night she thought how much she would like to figure out that man.

The coffee shop was closed when the man showed up, and though he had the woman’s number, he decided not to call it, and instead go have another drink. He stepped into a bar by Union Square, but decided not to drink there because it was too bright and he could see all of the furniture’s imperfections far too clearly. Instead, he decided, he would buy a bottle by his apartment, and drink at home, where nobody could bother him.
The man asked the car to go back to the premiere, and to drop him off where he was, because he wanted to walk. He stopped at a grocery store to buy some cigarettes, and he smoked his Luckies one after the other, and when he was halfway to the Village, he decided to take a subway the rest of the way, even if it would be only two stops.
In the subway station, the man put out his cigarette, and as he sat down he realized that there was a man playing music next to him. It was Moonman, and he was happy to see him, and when he put some money in Moonman’s guitar case, the man was greeted by a “Thank you.” Which he took as an obvious conversational invitation.
“Are you happy?” The man asked, to Moonman’s surprise.
“How do you mean that?”
“You know. Are you happy?” he asked again.
The Moonman put his guitar down and sat next to it. His eyes still floated independently of each other, but the man could feel that they were looking at him.
“No, but how do you mean that?” asked Moonman once more. “Happy is relative, and it’s judged differently by different people.”
“I want to know how you judge it.” Replied the man.
“Well then, I guess so.” Moonman shot back. Then, “Why do you ask, man? Why do you care if I’m happy?”
The man thought about it for a second.
“I want to know how you do it.”
Moonman stared at him, as if he were waiting for him to say more, as if this answer had not been enough for him, and then he sighed.
“Man, you must be crazy.” He laughed. “What are you asking me for?”
The man was silent.
“Look at me man, I’m playing music in the subway. I’m wearing boots I don’t know who wore before me, and I’ve got an eye problem. What would a guy like you possibly want to know from a guy like me? Ain’t you happy on your own?”
The man shook his head.
“Well there’s the problem then. What do you do man?”
“I’m a filmmaker.”
“And you’re not happy?”
Moonman grabbed his guitar and started playing.
“Well, then I guess you better do something else.” He said and smiled. The man turned to look at him. “Hey man, listen. I got my problems just like you do. But I’ve got something here most people don’t have. I do what I want, and what I do is make people happy. It works for me. May not work for you, but it works for me.”
“I wish I could do that.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Me. That’s the problem.”
The two were silent for a bit. The Moonman laughed. The man looked at him, but then he started laughing too. They laughed until the man’s face hurt, and until his eyes started to tear. Moonman was crying when the subway came, and when the man got up so did he, still crying. The man stood as the train rushed to a stop, and he looked over at Moonman and stuck his hand out to be shaken.
“Man, you do you, ok? You’ll be alright.” Moonman said loudly, and both men shook hands and the man got on the train and he left for his apartment.

When he got home, the man realized that he’d forgotten to buy himself that bottle, so he stopped by Barrow’s Pub to have another drink before he slept. When he walked in, the bar was empty, and there was music from the jukebox playing some country western ballad. He sat down at the bar and ordered a beer, and he asked for a napkin that he could write on while he drank. On the napkin he wrote his thoughts, and was surprised to find how very few of them there were. He only knew that he had them, but he had great trouble articulating them, even on paper, which had always been his specialty.
An original short story by Andoni Elias Nava 2010
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
Wineglasses shatter
in the dead of night.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It's useless
to hush it.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps on monotonously
the way water weeps,
the way wind weeps
over the snowdrifts.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps for things
far, far away.
For the sand of the hot South
that begs for white camellias.
Weeps for arrows without targets,
an afternoon without a morning,
and for the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
by five swords.
Little smile
Written on a sheet of notebook paper
Guitar strings
Plucked by a boy who's midnight hair masks his true personality

Shy kid of 17
No visible emotions just strings
Guitar strings

You look at him with broken promises from past lovers tattooed to your pupils
While the only thing made permanent in his are music notes
And though those are there for you too
The cons outweigh the pros

An open mic night
Who could've guessed that what I was planning on as
"just another open mic"
might have turned into this

But things don't always go as planned
For me they almost never do
And while I usually try to view the glass as as full
More times than not things turn out the opposite way
Leaving me...
Half empty

So think of this poem as your warning
I know more than anyone that sometimes it may seem like my baggage is deemed too heavy to carry
And if it appears to be too much for you
Just do me a favor and let me know before I unpack into your space

Guitar strings caught my attention
Loose threads on the sweater of my unraveling attention span

Take a chance
Take the plunge
Let yourself fall into a new romance
Don't think
Just.. Do.
Niko Jan 2017
The guitar makes my heart sing in melody,
giving me a remedy of specialty.
Somehow it calls to me desperately,
telling me endlessly its my destiny.

The guitar and I have chemistry,
Somehow the guitar is a legacy.
The music of the guitar makes me breathless,
making me feel weightless.

I feel light-headed to be exact,
its making me relaxed.
This attraction,
this passion,
Its electrifying.
Its what I dreamed for, for so long.

Test Ting Won To Tree
Charles Fleischer

Rifleman decal water is to Tiny basket liners as Strained yo-yo string is to?
Dark wool glowing is to Oldest lost oddity as First genetic engine is to?
Black quail taint is to Nut curdled paint as Hemp biscuit dominoes are to?
Steam traced paper is to Lemon ash vapor as Digital ****** wig is to?
Eccentric brine mimes are to Electric silk slacks as Spark formed lava is to?
Sunchoked black hornets are to as Rescued orphan doves as Retold cat jokes are to?
Hand traced videos are to Braided rubber spines as Opal rain dancers are to?
Halogen anchor gong is to Annoying bread portraits as Soft bracelet lockers are to?
Old troll bios are to Select cherub echoes as Broken matchstick parasols are to?
Dome nine chariots are to Frayed lunar remnants as Fuming honey flasks are to?
Bluing assault operas is to Beading fluted flowers as Magnetic lawn tweezers are to?
Converted flea sponges are to Floating dog murals as Frozen Archie comics are to?
Molded road pads are to Crusty gumdrop thread as Straw ribbed pelicans are to?
Inflatable diamond vowel is to Single gender raffle as Groovy desert coffee is to?
Temporary solution radiation is to Idiotic witness mumble as Motorized marshmallow kit is to?
Panoramic utopian paranoia is to Aggravated **** silhouettes as Unhinged gun sellers are to?
Homesick ghost pajamas is to Virtuous fly fungus as Royal sandpaper gloves are to?
Gangster hayride tickets are to Deer milk Oreos as Turnip fairy maps are to?
Glue gun **** is to Nocturnal cabin mice as Cab fare corn is to?
Speckled fish nickels are to Under water bric-a-brac as Epic snakeskin paisley is to?
******* bungalow pranks are to Drowsy vapid oafs as Quantized cavern fish are to?
Raunchy snail kimono is to Coiled time dice as Smeared equator malt is to?
Metallic centaur franchise is to Transparent cheese chess as Spotted glacial remnants is to?
Sky fused pong is to Rustic mothers brattle as Granulated canister ointment is to?
Overgrown maze mule is to Mated smugglers hugging as Floating thesaurus exam is to?
Sliding coed sprinkler is to Soapy whitefish rebate as Precious lamb diaper is to?
Mushy acorn luster is to Lilac protein rings as Slapstick wrestler dialect is to?
Freaky plankton bells is to Rolling horse divorce as Morphing morphine lips are to?
Sticky razor sparkle is to Emerald muscle spasm as Glaring cat cipher is to?
Peppy unisex mustache is to Pelican fighter syndrome as Clumping night grumble is to?
Scanning paired pearls are to Ruby rubbed roaches as Satanic sailor flotsam  are to?
Glowing asteroid solder is to Ideal shark data as Failed frail doilies are to?
Numb nuts boredom is to Fantastic icy phantoms as Sporadic silk creations is to?
Crooks crow chow is to Loading spackled bonder as Gargled snowdrop blasters are to?
Outdid myself today is to Outside myself again as Outlived myself controls is to?
Venting shuttlecock upset is to Texting badminton kitten as Settler tested motels are to?
Prepare paired vents is to Prefer paid events as Pretender predicts fiction is to
Crunchy mental fender is to Catching mentor menace as Poorly seasoned lettuce is to?
Outside sidewalk inside is to Seaside outcast input as Sideways landslide victory is to?  
Compile fake password is to Compost world poo as Compose village anthem is to?
Crooked crotch blunder is to Loud crowd thunder as Divine vine finder is to?
Chucks’ wooden truck is to Bucks good luck as Sticky ducks tucked is to?  
Overhaul underway overseas is to Overturned downsized pickup as Underground onramp overloaded is to?
I’ll bite there is to Aisle byte their as Isle bight there is to?
Gnat gnawed wrist is to ***** show beans as See through putty is to?
Flapping floppy guppies are to Buzzing zipped dozers as Muddy ****** strippers are to?
Dark diagonal dialogue is to Diabolical dihedral die as Interesting circadian exposition is to?
Experimental flossing expectations are to Waxed dental traps as Permanent impermanence resolution is to?  
Outran ringside intrigue is to Sidetracked onboard boatload as Loaded firearm topside is to?
Phony ****** phone is to Chewy ego honey as Yogi Mama’s dada is to?
Nimble teardrop squiggle is to Humble cage curtains as Loyal truckstop morals are to?
Torching curled elastic is to Sonic neighbor clamor as Golden droplet integers are to?
Duplex pupil scanners are to Nacreous cloud clocks as Shrouded flute shops are to?
Lawn rocket tendrils are to Finding surreal borders as Sheep monarchs children is to?
Gloating ungloved squires are to Busting double doubters as Pushing woeful doctors are to?
Tricking snowbelt firedogs is to Panmixing blackened haywires as Unclothed shameful leaders are to?
Malicious ranch ritual is to Internal puppet bubble as Ornate underworld masquerade is to?
Rustic debonair Eskimos are to Mindless sassy elves as Gorgeous somber acrobats are to?
Learned earthy pimps are to Fearless sneaky Queens as Somber gentle vagrants are to?
Shocking horse wear is to Glossy sled fluid as Damaged chipmunk tongue is to?
Traditional agony chart is to Damp voodoo motel as Backwoods museum quote is to?
Magical cat cabin is to Dapper porpoise humor as Malicious graveyard foam is to?
Therapeutic gazelle cushion is to Stored alibi equipment as Stunning tempo light is to?
Fantastic rascal art is to Wasted prune dust as Jupiter’s ****** law is to?
Little nut razor is to Gigantic hyena shield as Hourglass pillow fever is to?
Coiled rain clouds are to Dizzy tycoon clowns as Lime eating cowards are to?
Possessive epicurean demonstrators are to Faded eavesdropping giants as Determined swanky drunks are to?
Aquatic preview pocket is to Soggy judicial topiary as Finicky hamster fabric is to?
Enlarged fruit cuff is to Obedient mumbling orchestra as Dark tenant tariff is to?
Recycled flash thermometer is to Botched temptation probe as Pet glider grid is to?
Seriously shy idols are to Costly driving perfumes as Ferryboat chapel wine is to?
Winged jalopy details are to Faithful spectral fathers as Sprinkled mint rainbows are to?
Spelling unneeded words is to Sprouting donut ***** as Blaming mellow mallrats are to?
Eroding loom keepsake is to Magnificent accordion canoe as ***** bongo fumes are to?
Souring violet ink is to Juvenile insult park as Periodic ferret envy is to?
Obedient boyfriend aroma is to Sanitized fat lozenges as Dramatic jailer garb is to?
Mysterious patrol group is to Dynamic maiden discharge as Captured hurricane ratio is to?
Lackadaisical bigot bingo is to Oblong care merchant as Expensive swamp shampoo is to?
Petite orifice worship is to Atomic barge pet as Plucked hair exhibit is to?
Elite officer wallop is to Automatic yard rake as Healing ****** glitter is to?
Needless swan costume is to Giant jungle goat as Organic picnic napkin is to?
Leaky jet steam is to Innovative fascist whistle as Enchanting idol evidence is to?
Plastic mascara seduction is to Greasy thermal ointment as Attractive muskrat crease is to?
Lucky camel pills are to White coral Torah as Eternal stage clutter is to?
Roasted oat **** is to Sloppy *** glue as Nylon table debt is to?
Steep nook catastrophe is to Empty dome damage as Pulsing breeze powder is to?
Empty sack power is to Hitched buck stroke as Red claw warning is to?
Ultra brief slogan is to Yummy lab mutant as Pathetic ball armor is to?
Nauseating fish splatter is to Obstinate ****** twitch as Strained ***** coffee is to?
Mezzanine intermission fossil is to Proven **** apathy as Golden duck shroud is to?
Civil tutors torment is to Thor’s posted theory as Yellow melon rain is to?
Immense olive raft is to Exploding kangaroo buffet as Ethereal witness index is to?  
Marching dark speeders are to Searing scribble fighters as **** tripping sinners are to?
Seeping viral angst is to Aged hermit tea as Murky bowl nibble is to?
Condensed blister guzzle is to Pink dorsal pie as Lavish speckled runt is to?
Needy insult poet is to Sedated acorn trader as Dry honey zoo is to?
Veiled trust flicker is to Deranged poser fashion as Flat sizzle tangent is to?
Purified diet spray is to Nebulous wishing target as Thrilling screen dope is to?
Majestic ribbon astronomy is to Bizarre formation sector as Rebel bell gimmick is to?
Sealed dart whisper is to Green silk draft as Cold vacuum varnish is to?
Clumsy raven power is to Insect island circus as Minted mink drapes are to?
Curved map ruler is to Tiny lethal radio as Blue fused metal is to?
Inverted laser invasion is to Damp sheep dump as Puffy gown smoke is to?
Saucy Channel blazer is to Leather goat filament as Starched locomotive hat is to?
Broken jumper leads are to Disgraced mini exorcists as Designer shamrock caulk is to?
Tweaked poachers smokes are to Assorted sulfur pathways as Collected bedlamp trickle is to?
******* bungalow pranks are to Drowsy vapid oafs as Quantized cavern fish are to?
Crawling battle worms are to Vibrating metal pedals as Mentholated matrix wax is to?
Missing meshed rafts are to Liquid rock pipes as Crinkled bean bikinis are to?
Tithing **** joggers are to Perforated buck fronds as Leather zither picks are to?
Fearing truthful cowards is to Rambling preachers mumble as Gazebo ambulance gasoline is to?
Shelving elder’s whiskers is to Poaching goalies pesto as Radical tricycle angst is to?
Mucky gunboat polymer is to Primeval maypole flameout as Cathedral greenhouse intercom is to?
Diaphanous safety prize is to Unleashed saucer lion as Dorky blonde ropewalker is to?
Tapered spring meter is to Silver silo mythology as Misguided judges medallions are to?
Alligator x-ray money is to Cherry unicorn water as Coyote cactus toy is to?
Cowardly dorm scrooge is to Atomized pewter script as Flattened spore smoothies are to?
Trash can yodel is to Flashing wired spam as Exploding chocolate pudding is to?
Sonar blasted bushings are to Threading ruined wheels as Forty shifting boxes are to?
Tiny balloon rebellion is to Softened square cleanser as Iconic soul sucker is to?
Harmony night light is to Spanish nitrogen desire as Squirrel cavern iodine is to?

Lazy winter secret is to Slow airport widget as Silly mustard binder is to?
Elephants raising raisins are to Microscopic lamb planet as Purple hay puppets are to?
Caribou venom vaccine is to Electronic lemonade choir as Demonic princess massage is to?
Beet coated bridge is to Fattened needle point as Mylar monkey spine is to?
Ashy ink dust is to Youngest rabbi planet as Orange cartoon geometry is to?
Cold green chalk is to Cobalt ladder farce as ***** river filters are to?
Sublime sheep master is to Sleeping past rapture as Subliminal bliss jelly is to?
Ocean crust slippers are to Twigged germ radar as Popping sharpie scope is to?
Zen wrapped beep is to Oak foamed code as Wicked flashing sizzle is to?
Dew eyed sleigh is to Say I do as Act as me is to?
Humpback on hammock is to Ham hocking hummer as Hunchback with knapsack is to?
Corned flag jelly is to Draped wing chewers as Tripping swan acid is to?
Futuristic Rembrandt chant is to Almond likened meadows as Asian timber blue is to?
Nap in sack is to Flap on Jack as Ducks dig crack is to?
Flowing flavored lava is to Gleaming optic layers as Enhanced goose gibberish is to?      
Flag tied pajamas are to Saline checker choir as Speed reading quotas is to?
Whipped spam spasms are to Misted shaman scripture as Testing pitched bells is to?
Cave aged eggs are to Crowded tiger cages as ****** wagon pegs are to?
Pigeon towed car is to a Man toad art as Wolf whisker wish is to?
Second hand clothes are to Minute hand gestures as Final hour prayer is to?
Slick wicked shavers are to Tricky watch boxes as Sprouting pine tattoos are to?
Waxed stick ravens are to Match stick foxes as Narrowed thermal towers are to?
Ice cave rice is to Laced face lice as Gourmet pet **** is to?
Diamond lane anniversary is to Space age appropriate as Time travel agency is to?
Lime bark violin is to Lemon twig guitar as Lunar sky waffles are to?
Fake rat **** is to Smart cake batter as Rugged fur tax is to?
Tarred raft fluff is to Flaked rafter dust as Lined liquor flask is to?
Flakes will fall is to Take Bills call as Broken maze compass is to?
First faked voter is to Entombed cartoon honey as Smallest aching smurf is to?
Fancy bared ******* are to Flaky fairy treats as Kings amp filter is to?
Bone window folio is to Whittled fake pillow as Little fitted jackets are to?
Nine nuts brittle is to Ate pear pie as Six packed poppers are to?
Incandescent playground pencil is to Elastic hand worm as Perfumed piano ink is to?
Opal shifting anode is to a Windup lion decoy as Pale paisley trolley is to?
Stacked black boxes are to Old packed tracks as a Throwing micron hammers is to?
Apricot bark furnace is to Merry Orchid Choir as an Ivory rinsing funnel is to?  
Narcotic honey nuts are to Slick flag toffees as Silk fig sugar is to?
Orange coin raisins are to Low note candies as Smelling balled roses is to?
Pocket packed monotints are to Tragic ladder hayracks as Ravishing speed traders are to?
Crayon spider resin is to Coral squirrel forceps as Wolf tumbled loaf is to?  
Silver wheat flies are to Width shifting wheels as Golden blister blankets are to?
Really tiny hippopotamus is to Masked fat podiatrist as a Sad sack psychiatrist is to?
Miniature Mesopotamian monuments are to Apple minted elephants as Raising wise ravens is to?
Lathered nymph nacre is to Sonic ion constellations as Concealed iron craft is to?  
Epic gene toy is to Ladies bubble sled as Jagged data bowl is to?
Bugged dagger bag is to Pop sliced meld as Atom bending moonlight to?  
Rural madam’s deed is to Dyed dew dipper as Eight sprayed dukes are to?
Jiffy grand puffer is to Floating altar myth as Vintage dark mirth is to?
Undercover overnight underwear is to Overpaid undertaker overdosing as Overheard understudy freebasing is to?

Black grape crackle is to Red cactus ruffle as Installing padded pets are to?
Snide snobs sniffing are to Sneaky snails snoring as Snared snipes sneezing are to?
Exploring explosive exits is to Explaining expansive exports as Expecting expert exchange is to?
Shrewd logic ledger is to Puppets dropping cupcakes as Placated topaz octopi are to?
Door roof tools are to Cool wool boots as Wood cooked root is to?
Bright fight light is to Night flight fright as Mites bite site is to?
Floor flood fluid is to Wooden door Druid as Nasty **** broom is to?
Accurate police photography is to Intelligent microbe geography as Condensed aerosol biography is to?
Cowardly cowboy grime is to Corpulent corporate crime as Bosnian dwarf necromancer is to?
Jell-O clearing shaker is to Brillo cleaning shiner as Cheerios bowling shields are to?
Mumbled mindless hokey is to Fumbled found money as Humming kinder bunny is to?
Daisy’s clock setter is to Lilly’s boxer toxin as Poodles rose paddle is to?
Watch Bozo Copernicus is to Hire Clarabelle Newton as Find ***-wee Einstein is to?
Amethyst thistle whistles is to Lapis pistol whip as Diamond bomb scar is to?
Dandelion seahorse rescue is to Crabapple dogwood farm as Faux foxglove lover is to?    
Optical poppy stopper is to Polar halo lens as Day-Glo rainbow sticker is to?
Savanna leopard spotted is to Eskimo lassos kisses as Alligator lemonade standard is to?
Bill of Rights is to Will of left as Thrill of night is to?
Baptize floozies quickly is to Useless outsized nozzles as Puzzled wizard wanders is to?        
Chaps wearing chaps are to Chaps contesting contests as Consoling concealed consoles is to?
Quiet squirming squirrels are to Aeon beauty queens as Queasy greasy luaus is to?
Knew new gnu is to Sense scents cents as We’ll wheal wheel is to?
Blazing zingers ringing are to Wheezing singers flinging as Freezing finger number are to?
Lamb tomb jogger is to Dumb numb **** as Thumbed crumb bug is to?

Blue accordion casket is to Jaded scholar ***** as German mushroom circus is to?
President George Flintstone is to Funny Fred Washington as Abraham Jetson’s dog is to?
Google Desmond Tutu is to Kalamazoo Zoo Park as Zodiac actors Guru is to?
Swamp cradled whisperer is to Cherished drawbridge cello as Bludgeoned prankster outlaws are to?
Dukes pink mittens are to Smeared nest carava
axr Sep 2014
In the corner of the street
a man plays an old guitar
Nobody notices him
He continues to gaze at the stars
The city's noise
Is capable of drowning his voice.
He plays without hesitation
Never asking for attention.
He can't afford anything new
The kindest,
give him a dollar or two.
His lifestyle is frugal.
They say he owned a fancy hotel.
His strings are worn out
but the sound is clear
His only love is his beer.
In the corner of the street,
a man plays an old guitar
The same one
who never sang about his broken heart.
Reflecting a story through a poem
Leiser Poetry Aug 2014
I can remember that first encounter. He was a man in his early thirties, bright eyes but with a dark grin and was smoking your cigars wearing a black hat and he was also carrying a guitar. He was here to show me how to strum an few chords.

I remember him distinctively saying...

"Guitar playing I am about to teach you is really the same as love making you know?"

I  laughed and blankly said
"but how so?"

" Well... (grinning)
Each string has to be carefully plucked, and contains a different  sensation and vibe if you mishandle the strings that final note will sound awful.

He was showing me how to re-tune and play a few chords which were C, D and G then pass me over the guitar back to me.
"Its your turn dear, and be really gentle"

While doing this and playing the first few chords of the guitar which was D I could feel him rub my shoulders and chest gently.
"Don't worry you can trust me, I was just loosening you up we can't have you feeling tense"
"Now, show me a G"

I begin to play the chord G while doing that he then grasped firmly on my other hand : I can feel a surge of heat from his hands firing up my fingers. This heat was making its way to my chest. He now caressed and circled around the chest and then higher up to my *****. I can feel his breath and his tongue swirling and stretching out to **** on my *******.

"Okay ... final note play me a C"

I crouch down to the floor and begin to strum that final chord and can then feel him stretch his hands beneath my skirt I could feel the sensations further of his fingers strumming my ***** in the same rhythmic motions of his guitar previously.

"See what I said? music playing really is the same as love making"
"I nodded and said yeah I suppose"

A bit shaken and uncertain how to respond but he kept whispering into my ear and repeating that same line: while kissing me on my cheeks, stroking me up and down in circular motions in which I could feel a tense feeling of release and then silence again

Was that the final note?
Maytin Paige Mar 2014
You were the boy
with the black guitar.
I remember listening to you express how
you'd learn to play one day
and start a band.
That was once my dream too.
Not with you though.
I wanted to be the founder,
the singer,
the guitar player.
I couldn't sing,
and I definitely couldn't play guitar.
I still can't,
though I try to teach myself everyday.
I gave up on that dream
but you followed it
and made it happen.
You sat next to me,
though you didn't want to.
You touched me,
though you didn't mean to.
You apologized,
though you didn't have to.
Maybe it was then
that you knew you wanted
the relationship
we once had
as children.
Now you leave guitar picks laying around
for me to collect.
unnamed May 2014
it's cold and dark and calm outside
so you make sure that i'm tucked up tight
but i need fresh air so the window is open ajar
whilst there in the corner lays a battered guitar

i'm high as hell so you carried me home
and wrapped me up into a bed of your own
you throw a lumpy mattress by the guitar on your floor
and apologise in advance for the fact that you snore

because i can't even remember my name
may give the green light to most, to see me as 'fair game'
my hair is a mess and my clothes are askew
but that doesn't seem to matter to you

i'm taken aback as you toss me a shirt
you try to stifle your laugh but i catch you smirk
as i try to escape from the clutch of my dress
i hear a laugh which you fail to suppress

i wrestle your shirt with my limbs in a tangle
you yank it over my head, for which i am thankful
i wriggle free from the blanket and sit up cross legged
as you fling yourself down at the foot of your bed

you tell me you've just got a text from my mother
who says she trusts me with you and no other
and that you are under very strict instructions
to keep me away from all teenage destruction

it's 1.30am and my thoughts are cotton wool
but our bottle of ***** is still three quarters full
my eyes spy the battered guitar in the room
and i beg you to play me my favourite tune

an undeniably slow start as you mess up the chords
and ramble on about how i'm probably bored
but my eyes fix on yours with an encouraging grin
and as you continue to play, goosebumps rise on my skin

and as you place the battered guitar back down
you sarcastically ask whether i'm happy now
the buzz of my body and the smile on my face
shows that here, happiness is truly the case
2018 edit and I’m still finding guitarists cute um
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
genesis: it could have been dinosaur jr.,
or blind melon,
or for that matter: nirvana...
punk: whoosh!
scalped me...
                to the point where i wasn't
able to tell the difference between
a skin-head or a mohawk...
i'd still watch the back to the future
trilogy many more times
thanstar wars...
   because that's just what you did...
prog. rock revision?
a bit hard to revise the king crimson
but tool managed it...
   forever and through to this day,
and a tomorrow,
i will keep my respects to bands
than respect the bass guitar...
i must be tone-deaf...
sure, you sometimes hear the bass
guitar, but most of the time?
no, nope, can't hear ****...
        did drums and rhythm guitar
just gobble down the bass guitar?
late punk, pop even,
akin to early offspring?
or, rubric grunge,
   starting ground?
   pearl jam, vs. or vitalogy?
your pick...
and memories of 1998...
a year... or just a year prior...
fiddling with a daewoo
fidgeting, while getting reception
of a news channel,
that broadcasted the death
of boris yeltsin...
   it's not exactly nostalgia...
if the years you're making references
of, you were alive in...
how's that nostalgia...
         nostalgia is either
nietzsche or hölderlin referencing
ancient greece...
   **** me and **** all
that ancient theatre...
               polite society my ***...
more like:
of those who would later
encourage dyslexia...
   maybe i was never gen X...
punk hard-on
    cut-off the phallus,
replace it with a gyrating *****...
   of my youth?
   well... inclinations
surrounding depeche mode...
vs. the cure...
the earliest fathomable example
of precursor-goth...
but, me? mostly grunge...
red mosquisto by pearl jam...
- nothingman
- indifference
    - rats
- red mosquito (****, i already mentioned
that song)
      - and some other,
out of the oeuvre...
   stray dogs, strangest tribe...

you know how long it took
me to find a radio station
that i finally bound myself
to not mind?
  20 ******* years...
go figure...

             but all the bands who
recongnised the bass guitar,
didn't fall foul with the rhythm
  and the jerking off of
the solo: ***-ar?
         nice verberation...
the over-layer of the subtle rhythm
to the otherwise crass
expression of drums...
it's like some of these rock
bands, never bothered to listen
to the famous five of the jazz quintet

    you need bass man,
you can't over-compensate
with rhythm guitars, solos,
and vocals...
drums is not some background
and bass?
        bass smooths over
the drums...
rhythm guitar, solo,
and vocals are just additions,
to what desires a common
thread architecture of

        perfect example, again,
you know how hard it is...
to pick up a bass guitar presence
in that band?
you'd have top, topping
being the deaf Beethoven...

now you can ask:
why would i write, something akin
to this?
   i've seen enough of masks,
to know what's genuine,
and what is merely façade...
   perfect, me? b'ah ha ha ha!
   yeah... like, maybe tomorrow,
in a decade's passing,
but not really...

             pristine people,
are only pristine,
depending on how they use
cutlery, or are able to fold
a napkin...
      flying a ******* kite is not
going to cut the basics of:
deviating from said *******...

any pervading allowance
of i.q. leaves you with one option,
to trust, always, and everyone,
until the one incident,
which makes you, subsequently,
trusting no one,
                   and never again...

i can only reason with honesty,
on an unsuspecting crowd...
the rest...
    settle for comment sections,
for sycophantic measures
of debate...
   i'm not better...
              only that...
              i know there's something
better to be had,
from this, allocated
meagre experience,
                     to begin with...
for one...
i do not understand the concept
of stray cats...
stray dogs: that, i can underatand
as a paradox, given their ontological
but cats?
        cats are not exactly adherent
       you must have seriously
treated a cat like ****,
                if they "became", stray.

i sometimes wish i could lie,
but then i wouldn't be drinking,
and if i weren't drinking...
wasting, so much time,
on a lie...
                 while succumbing
to an errosion of imagination,
for fakery?
personally? i rather drink...
and blah blah my way through
to the next day.

— The End —