"guitarists" poems
I just don't understand
why so many Guitarists,
and moreover Musicians,
so disdain drop tunings;
Just because that technique
may well differ from yours
does not necessarily mean
either is inherently inferior.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
me
there are things
i should burn for
but i won't
there are things
i should burn
but i don't
burn for you
i still burn for you
when i drink i still drink
but only in fiction
i try my best
to avoid looking at
pianists guitarists and singers they don't upset me
but i guess their art is too honest
for who i am
as it should be
i will never
understood anything done
for me out of love
me i
shouldn't be alive
last november i kicked
my friend in the face while
he tried to save my life
i'd forgotten about it and so
when he visited me
in hospital the next day
i asked about the bruise
above his eye
he looked at me real
funny and told
me he ran into a tree
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 4:06 AM UTC
On old mainstreet, sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Rednecks and faux-necks and used-to-be-loggers,
Crafters and rafters, and activist bloggers,
And poets and hippies and mystics and fools,
And outcasts from the secondary schools,
And gypsies too: you’ll find them here,
Drowning in local, hand-crafted beer.
At night, locals sip organic tea,
And turn up the menagerie
Of lights and mics from another age,
Pieced together to make a stage.
And there, the guitarists waste their breath
Beating the Same. Four. Chords. To. Death.
There are some new lyrics, there and here,
But all of them memories of yester-year:
A year spent in the same **** space,
With others who’ve never left this place.
They sing of their dear loves and pasts,
And how much longer the wandering lasts.
And on they wail, and on they moan,
And twang the antique, rustic tone,
But their faces show they like it here,
This breaking haunt of yester-year,
And after the set, they carouse with cheer,
And smile contentedly to their beer.
On old mainstreet sits an old café,
Where home-town-grown musicians play.
Sometimes they like to change its name,
But the clientele stay just the same.
When times are tough down in the town,
You know you can’t get the Black Dog down.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Spanish Guitars
A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101).
This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig.
Spanish Guitars
two weeks pass.
I have seen
two guitars
one of wood,
one of sheet metal.
both were alive,
both were inanimate
both birthed for display,
useful for granting pleasure and
heating up le jus d'creation
products of a tradesman's craft,
animated to pierce my brain and
pleasure me with the realization
that when you see
what I see
When you,
you hear,
What I see
we all perforce speak but one language,
an alphabet of music, art and love
A young,
oh so most beautiful
Croat guitarist girl,
Ana, coaxes an urgency
from her love, the blonde wood,
she takes Piazzola's notes,
as if they were Picasso's thoughts
and set them within so
days later, the resonance plucks
at my temples
Picasso, like a little boy,
collects collaged bits and pieces of
life's stuff most ordinary,
postage stamps, playing cards,
wallpaper, pieces of cardboard,
cutouts from Le Journal,
and with fingers delicate
sticks and glues discrete notes,
individually nothing
but pieces of this and that,
bits and bobs
superimposed on faux woodwork,
presenting an instrument tooled to
conjures up a milonga^,
the sounds of angels dying,
a fandango of trembling tones
a sonnet of sounds,
celebrating human touch
upon animal, strings taut,
feasts both, a banquet,
a triomphe of sounds
that tutors my senses
to hear sheet metal guitars
imprisoned in museum glass
gush sounds of parallel lines
and delicate contrasts,
A duet of animate, inanimate
Virtuosity
All is clarified.
One language.
Many dialects.
Both, Spanish guitars.
^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC
I see timber, I see my Dad.
The wrinkled grain grin
sits lost on his face,
he’s selling his timeless record collection:
the finest midlife crisis since records began.
Lined bits of paper with a pen and plan,
bass players and guitarists are all being sold,
including the front man,
microphone, monitor and stand.
Under the slim light, what’s
going to be sold is exposed
ready for a thorough cleaning
of the black gold moulds.
None of us are allowed near, we have been told,
this is a strict operation and it’s under control,
he starts spouting tiny liner note quotes
none of us understand, we need a translator- grab your coats.
We returned to a mess of a man:
he did not go through with his midlife crisis plan.
His extra 3000 children in their sleeves
can sleep safe tonight knowing that everything will be all right.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
It was an atmosphere
It was an oxygen mixed with southern fog
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind
The rolling hills behind property lines
It was the question you asked
not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass
as I leaned against your Corolla
And we sang under the overpass
It was graffiti
It was graffiti
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple hair and acid wash jean jackets
melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement
It was the way the reverb spread the major seventh across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor ninth
which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars)
and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd-
surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.
It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat
soaking up the air of my A/C heat
and the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall
and now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all
But I'll let this night be interstellar
I'll take a bath in the Big Dipper and write you a letter about Orion's Belt
or how I miss the stars sparkling in your eyes making contact with the E.T. in me.
Phone me home, darling.
I'm lost at sea.
-W.J. Thompson
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 1:13 AM UTC
This one is for the old souls—
for the minds sustained on stories
and the lips that speak only
in combinations of words dusted
with jaw-tingling purpose.
For those who can find salvation
in a good bass line
and the disciples of that
aww sookie sookie now—
for the air guitarists
who will only ever make it big
going solo at a stoplight—
for the pairs of eyes
that can’t help but see things
the way love is felt:
inexplicably with hungry fascination.
This one is for the old souls—
may the world always be
your zealous oyster,
producing enough pearls to fill
an Olympic-sized swimming pool,
and may you always be
brave enough to jump in
wearing only a smile.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
We were never a fan of dialogues.
At the other end of the street I would watch her
Each Monday, carrying a new book every time.
I didn't like to read.
I preferred music, in my opinion
Was the equivalent of a book
Each telling a story.
The cup of coffee in my hand felt as warm as my heart
As I blew the hot liquid from the brim of the cup
And take a picture of her with the smoke that frames her body.
I wrote short poems of how captivating her beauty was
On the greasy table napkins provided for the coffee tables
Producing a different piece each time.
Her mouth would move as she read the words,
Mumbling lines of incoherent sentences I could not decipher.
At times I would see a smile break out on her face
And I would find myself consumed in slight envy.
Would she have smiled at the words I've written for her?
She was a song, I was a poem.
She was first written on smooth paper,
A thoughtless idea jotted in messy handwriting
Soon expanding into a verse and chorus
Written over and over again,
Revised by experts, reviewed until perfection,
Interpreted by bassists, guitarists, drummers, and vocalists
Appreciated repeatedly through the stereos of listeners
As they capture each beat and tempo.
She was flawless.
I was a poem.
I was rewritten in a single document copy
Renamed and revised
From the greasy fingers tapping away on keyboards
Typed and deleted,
Typed and deleted.
Frustrating the writer as they could never get an idea out of me
Leaving me in a file hidden in the folders of an old computer
Unfinished and waiting to be opened.
I was a mess in unorganized stanzas of ideas,
Lines which no one will have the audacity to read,
A waste of time,
Flawed.
She was the perfection in every imperfection
An artwork that you could only love through the eyes.
A piece which I
Wanted in my own.
I watched her again silently and wondered
Is it possible to love someone you've only admired from afar?
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 11:02 PM UTC
I remember summers ago with a boy, who wasn’t so sweet but could read aloud like a gypsy and read your hand lines like a priest. I’d kick off my shoes and we’d spread a huge blue sun-bleached towel on the sand and prop up a chair. The metal grew hot in the sun. I remember a cooler full of Coke cans and plastic cartons of strawberries; we lived off those for days at a time (along with the occasional Hot Pocket) because we were too lazy to bike out to town, and it was too hot to leave the wooden floorboards and ice towels of our house. The windows let in the evening lights from a few miles away and the distant sounds of Spanish street guitarists. Sometimes we clambered up on the roof to hear them better, and you memorized one of the songs they’d play every night, spinning out a rough version on your guitar. But you couldn’t pronounce the words as well.
When we went out on the beach, you hated the waves so you stayed high from shore while I waded out until the water reached my belly, feeling the coolness seep through my shirt and the sand riffle between my toes. I’d always wanted you to join me. I wish you didn’t hate the waves, but you did so I just stood there alone, taking in salt from the breeze and the laughter of two sisters dragging buckets of water they could barely carry from the ocean to their sand castle. Again and again they came and went so that they could fill up the moat, because you couldn't have invaders from the next kingdom over to be able to kidnap the princess so easily.
May 7, 2011
May 7, 2011 at 9:16 PM UTC
(Theme, Variations, and Coda)
Theme – Andante sognante
I dreamed last night...
It was a dream
Like one I've had before
Variations on a theme
My colleagues standing at my door
Guitarists all, I bid them in
And soon it's time to play
My teacher first, each one in turn
They play the night away
Var. 1- Agitato
But as they play I look around
For my guitar is gone
I look and look but cannot find
Then comes my time... “I can't go on!”
This is absurd. How can I play?
(What? Did I hide it by design?
Is this my “out” as light breaks day,
An ironclad alibi?)
“I can't perform, no, not today.
I'll have to play another time.”
Var. 2 – Appassionato
My time has come, and there I sit
With my guitar in hand
And wonder what the hell to play
My mind a porous shifting sand
Completely unprepared I sit
And pray for intervention
I make up some simplistic ****
And play it with “emotion”
Var. 3 – Allegro con brio e subito calamitoso
This time round, it's different
I really want to play.
I'm ready, I'm inspired!
I'll play till break of day
I'll show them what I'm made of
They'll marvel and they'll cry
But my guitar just falls apart
“What? Why now? Why? WHY?”
The neck breaks off, the body splits,
the strings are hanging limply
I'm foiled again, I cannot play
I'm ******* (to put it simply)
Coda - Andantino Contemplativo
What does it mean, this silly dream
This wild subconscious spectre?
What nourishment for soul to glean
From such netherworldly nectar?
Hmmm...
I think that I should spend more time
With hands on wood and string
To reconnect with touch and sound
To let my veiled heart sing
To feel, and set those feelings free
Catharsis, true release
My sheepish nature put to bed
My denigration now to cease
For I have something bold to say
Now my true voice is ready
I'll sing again through wood and string
Rich and full and steady
Alive with truths that transcend words
Ego now at bay
Connecting with the universe
It's time for me to play
Fine
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 6:16 PM UTC
*I have come to realize
on this very first of a stormy winter night,
shivering alone at my stacked desk,
that our relationship is a childish defense mechanism.
We fool around, curse each other out.
We share secrets like no two best friends ever do.
We sing our soulless hearts out to rock bands
with suicidal guitarists, comfortably evading our feelings.
"What a childish defense mechanism!" I hear myself say.
I never once wrote poetry for you
for fear it might elope into something out of control.
I was not ready for that. I am not still.
And I'm yet unsure I ever will be.
But ****** I just had to get it down on paper for once.
And I detest being stuck in this hazy, grayish aura
of it never being truly white, but not really black either.
And my thoughts are mimicking the weather tonight,
cloudy and thunderous, yet utterly breathtaking.
I think I might love you one day just as much as I love winter.*
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 4:31 AM UTC
You're one to believe in god,
so tell me Grandfather;
You believe everything has a meaning
and war can be righteous
and war can be hell.
What does the rain mean?
It's not a metaphor for pushing life
into the festering corpse of a beat horse
in the late fall, early winter, is it?
Is it a drowning of that mistake?
A bed to sink your imperfections into?
What is this grey sky speaking to?
Was it WW2's tail gunners dead in the back
and pilots swarming like flies in vicious harmony?
bloodthirsty dogfights, and the folk guitarists
standing in awe,
jaws unhinged,
mouths open,
wondering,
"What the everloving **** just happened?"
You believe in God, so tell me;
They stuck your body in the dirt
over 2, or maybe it was 3 years ago.
You never told me anything about this.
You never told me anything
but empty threats.
God is a mass hysteria;
a mental disability,
a harmful fantasy.
But what does the rain mean?
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
Let's take a look at the band
it's the ladies that they're after
but I'll bet you didn't know
that guitarists finger faster.
Sure the singer's good with the tongue
and the drummer has rhythm mastered
the bass player always slaps the g string
but guitarists finger faster
My Girlfriend and I laid together
on her soft warm bed
little did we know what blazing passion
soon laid ahead
She said "Babe can you play me something? I had a very bad day
I kissed her cheek and with a voice so Meek I said lovingly "Okay".
I walked across the room
picked up my six string acoustic
I sat on the bed and played Stand By me, because I knew my girlfriend knew this.
She said "Babe, I wanna hear something exciting"
As I slowly came to a stop.
I picked it up again, and played one of my favorites, miserlou, by the king of surf rock.
As I played I looked at my lady
sitting across from me on the bed
she was grinning from ear to ear
and her thighs were sensually spread.
I laughed softly and stopped playing
and put my six string down
I got on top her warm body and said
looks like your my instrument now
I kissed her warm sweet lips
and looked into those come hither eyes
I slowly bit on her neck sliding
my hand between her thighs
I kissed her again, growling softly
As I ran my fingers between her hips
I slid my finger up and down
slowly upon her c/it
She said "Baby make me scream I want you to be my master
I kissed her once again and said
"Guitarists Finger faster"
With that etched onto her brain
I slid my fingers inside
slowly, but firmly I wanted her
to enjoy the ride
I started to let my hand pick up speed
Middle and ring don't fail me now
I blocked out all sound but I could tell
my hand should take a bow
I slid my fingers back outside
and put them to her lips
I licked them too and said
"Hmm your pxssy seems like a tasty dish"
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
It was an atmosphere.
It was an atmosphere.
It was oxygen mixed with southern fog,
Southpaw gloves tied in sailor knots,
Waves of golden grains in ocean wind,
The rolling hills behind property lines.
It was the question you asked,
It was the question you asked,
Not with words but in the way you breathed against the window glass,
While I leaned against your Corolla,
And we sang under the overpass.
It was graffiti,
It was graffiti.
It was the cavernous concrete cats with purple
hair and acid wash jean jackets,
Melting the light of their city's street lamps into the obsidian void of moistened pavement.
It was the way the reverb spread the major 7th across the sky with burnt orange cascading into the violet of the minor 9th which reminds me of crickets and summer nights (and violins and cellos and midwestern jazz bars), and how bar chords are a guitarists way of flipping off a crowd,
Surfing the web for an answer to why I'm still single-
handedly the handsomest man in my car currently.
It's the cloth in my empty passenger seat,
soaking up the air of my A/C heat.
And the scent of the soil spilt from the succulent I was given at a wedding last fall,
And now I don't know if my trunk will ever smell clean at all.
It was how my energy dripped away into the floods of San Jose,
And how her eyes began to sink into her iPhone 7's screen.
It's in how I long for prolonged eye contact,
It's in how close the answer is but never slips,
I'm not interested in the electric work of fingertips,
I'm interested in connection.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 3:45 AM UTC
A little girl, blond as can be,
Sits in her shed, staring mindlessly.
She thinks of an idea and tells her dad,
"My shed needs painting,
So it won't be so sad."
They worked on her shed, day and night,
Until her dad tucked her in bed,
Nice and tight.
The next day, the little girl sprang from her bed,
She ran to her yard, smiling at her shed.
The once old wooden shed,
Now had a lovely smile.
The little girl hugged it saying,
"Sorry it took a while."
From the early bird's chirp,
To the friendly owl's hoot,
The young girl played in her shed,
Like a chick in its coop.
One day the little girl began to cry,
For her elderly father was soon to die
The shed's smile soon started to fall.
The young girl it once knew,
Had gotten so tall.
It tried to hold up its rusty old boards,
Trying to cheer her up,
Like a guitarists with the perfect chords.
One day the young girl, now a woman,
Walked out to the shed, and gave it a hug,
Just like she always did.
She cried and talked to her shed,
Explaining that her father was dead.
Yet she thanked her father,
for building that shed.
It always cheered her up,
With its smile painted wide.
When she was happy, it stood up tall.
Yet when she was sad,
It leaned to one side.
One day she came home,
With a man by her side,
With her white dress flowing,
She happily cried.
The shed had only one problem
With this man by her side.
When th girl came visiting,
Her tears were already dried.
The years passed by,
As the couple had a child.
Though the shed grew tired,
The weeds grew wild.
With the years racing by, the shed fell down,
It's boards and bolts,
cast and scatteredalomg the ground.
The husband wanted those old bolts rid,
As he kicked the rusty boards,
They scattered and skid.
The girl looked at the rusty pieces of shed,
And smiled simply shaking her head.
Why get rid of such beautiful wood,
When we can make a baby bed?
The shed would've leaped out of the air,
Its joy and happiness,
Relieved by her care.
So the baby slept with its crib and mobile,
On the side of th crib, was the shed's big smile.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC
breaking a heart is like,
ripping an artists' lovely canvas in half, as you watch the artist cry you laugh.
breaking a heart is like,
smashing a guitarists' guitar, it leaves a musical scar on the guitarist, who no longer wishes to be a star.
breaking a heart is like,
bringing a small child into society, quickly ruining their views of society.
breaking a heart is like,
telling the sun we no longer need him, he says okay, and we regret it as we're slowly dying the next day.
but hey, breaking hearts is popular now.
i mean like wow,
but to be honest, the more
hearts are breaking
the more art is silently awaking.
it's kind of sad really,
dont get me wrong, its breathtaking
but dont you think its silly
how art has to be awoken this way?
Feb 28, 2016
Feb 28, 2016 at 10:10 PM UTC
The mariachi band
Is playing dizzyingly
Next to our table
The guitarists
Hair wetly slicked
Back
"We live off of
Tips sir,
Anything
Will help.
Now, something
Romantic for
Your woman"
When they are
Finished their frantic
Strumming
I had him a
Folded 5
They dash off
To the next
Table
I slug a pounder
The beer inside is
Warm and the water
That runs through
The city is the
Same color as the
Water in Disney
World
Dyed that sickly
Turquoise grey
Tour boats cut
Small waves that
Lap the sidewalks
And the fat tourists
Feed tortilla chips to
Swarming clouds
Of small brown
Birds
Another warm
Swallow of beer
And the sunglasses
Perched in my
Greasy hair
Who needs a
******* job
Give me warm
Beer and sickly
Fake water and
A table with her
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
Sooner or later,
they go down in flames.
Once apostles
on the edge,
crazy-fingers
annihilating
electric lines of faith,
and we,
in our self-induced
afflicted states,
listened to every line
of their angst,
sang along,
full of love,
clapped to their beat.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
I’m drowning
It’s heavenly
See what happened is
A million faeries with golden wings
Carried us to the heights
Of the enchanted tree
Moonbeams melting our nervous hearts
See what happened is
Spanish guitarists
Serenaded us
The river whispering sweet nothings
As we floated
On clouds of pure wonder
See what happened is
The sky opened to show a rainbow grin
The heavens sang
Our eyes made silent confessions
And the universe,
Unable to take such intensity,
Exploded into violet flame
See what actually happened is
She touched my hand
And I melted.
And, later,
My heart flowed through my lips
To fly with stars and streetlights
“And I get the feeling you might maybe like me too”
And she smiled and said
“Yea, I do”
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
Prettiest lights and the
realest folks
all gather on the streets of
Times Square.
All that is expected is to enjoy the
signs,
the music playing,
stores and their windows with
dresses and mannequins,
and the lights flashing everywhere
creating the brightest
scene.
All that is expected is to
let yourself free.
Adapt to the lights that
flash
observe the signs of
artists on their way
put a penny in the guitarists
case
take in the audio of
real people
everywhere.
We would be lost in life
without the fitting in of
a little
shenanigans.
I just want
to be there
again.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 1:12 PM UTC
I understand it wouldn't work.
And trying would make it bad.
A band can have two guitarists
but only one frontman, it's sad,
really, but I understand why.
Oh, friend of mine, carry me to
acceptance, when my feet hang,
dangle, when my legs lose angle,
push my body overseas, take me
to a place of peace, and island in
between, nothing to be seen, but
waves and clouds, colliding, turning
into one.
I'm not telling stories anymore,
what is wrong or what is different,
what is better, maybe left indifferent.
I told stories to fight the bore.
Unique, feeling, pursue that,
pursue it with passion as your
driver.
Wipe it off, use the doormat.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
my constant corner
is at the back
on the elevated platform
next to the drums
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and the bassist.
where there is just enough room for
the drummer
and me.
your normal nook
is at the front
of the regular stage
between the keys and electric
where there is plenty of space for
the vocalists and
the guitarists.
where there is plenty of space for
you.
it's as if we're separated
by a musical fence
we're never placed next to each other
because it just wouldn't make sense,
but i guess last wednesday
was the exception.
i arrived early and you were already there
you told me that we'd be next to each other, how rare!
we talked
we tuned
we plugged in
and very soon
we were playing music.
we ran through the set list
which consisted
of three songs,
we exchanged smiles
all the while
we kept the music going strong.
at one point
during the bridge
of song two,
you needed help with the chords
and it was really loud
so i leaned in close to you.
i yelled the note names
as my fiery fingers played through
the progression,
your eyes said it all
and deciding to fake it
was your confession.
later on-
i continued to help with chords
you kept me from being bored
you smiled at me
when we
returned to that bridge.
at the end-
to the stage our team returned
and that is when i learned
as the pastor closed in prayer
that maybe you do care...
looking at me
you held your arm out
wanting me to join you at your side.
and so i did.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
void careless
rock-star dreams
hopeless probation
fuzzy American ethics
loom secret command star
surrounded by angers
told i'm sick -- growth on track!
rising up to an unknown home
craves attention
can't sleep
need money, poor family
turning 23
need to become a rock-star
void careless
Jun 15, 2017
Jun 15, 2017 at 3:14 AM UTC
once upon a time, my english teacher (a pict), blamed english soap opera (namely eastenders), for his students treating books like bricks, or at least door stoppers.
yep, and the most entertaining drama
i've seen unfold, was between my
neighbour's dog, and my pavarotti's
worth of a cat: every time it rains
and his meowing, i'm an inch's worth
close to phoning amnesty international
on grounds of: human abuse...
hate this ginger **** this castrated frankenstein
monstrosity meowing all the time...
it almost feels like i guillotined his
******** + testicles off, even though
i'm the ******* of pedigree annoyance
tactics...
but, really? it must be the jazz pedigree
in me, transitioning from classical music
that really, gets me,
i hate bands that disrespect bass guitarists...
i'm either sly, or pedantic, or simply
nerdy...
i don't like bands that forget bass guitars,
i like to think of them as a buffer criterium
segregating rhythm guitar and the drums,
bass guitars allow a harmony,
listen to enough jazz, and you'll know -
i like, and i also don't like bands like
metallica... i must be deaf...
i must have had a mumbai elephant stamp
on my trombone's worth of owing an ear,
but i can't hear drums...
so i must be deaf...
i know the bass is there,
but it's subtle... too subtle for my liking,
it might be a guilt-ridden thing,
having lost cliff burton...
but i have to be a bit deaf guarding a reminder...
i have no respect for bands that
hide the bass, and bask in rhythm guitars
and drums...
sorry, but bass guitar is a crucial
mediatory medium of what comes after:
either solo guitar or the already apparent
"stage fright" of vocal exfoliation...
and that's truly the case, the most "soap opera"
i've seen these days, was staged
by my ginger-ninja and my neighbour's *****
when people become too docile to become
interesting or entertaining,
you revise yourself using animals
as a blank slate...
and i must be deaf,
i can't hear any bass guitar on the majority
of metallica's songs...
devil's dance is besides the point,
being stated;
just call me deaf and we'll be ripping
a dollar bill to the hush of: evens.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:36 PM UTC
Now That We All Know What a Plinth Is…
What will we establish upon our bare, ruined plinths
Where late the stern-visaged generals stood? 1
Guitarists, perhaps, or free-verse poets
Or refugees from Harvard’s sophomore class
We could ***** erections to erections
As advertised on the family radio
With brazen legends reading “Hey-Hey! Ho-Ho”
Honoring the noble eloquence of our age
Or, with roses for remembrance, leave them bare
Amid shrill protestations of despair
1 Cf. Sonnet 73, Shakespeare
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC