"stratocaster" poems
This degree is a badge, not a tombstone
or it could me the makings of the next decade
I’ll procrastinate on being an adult
while my father leaves our house and
drives his new used Porsche around,
In the swells I play my Stratocaster
alone in the dark and I’ll make the sounds
of waves and
anger.
I’ll be lifted up by my collar bones
my speech will be the sounds of ripping paper
I’ll lose all contingency
And say good bye to serendipity
It will be my last known surroundings,
The trembling hands of human qualities
Be comfortable, creature, creator,
Let me back in.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
I'm scared of the silence
Lately I distrust my thoughts
I don't like the voices in my head
That finds the confidence to speak up during the lateness of nights
I think the only reason I keep listening to John Mayer
Is because when he sings about the troubles I am facing
He sings in a melody that makes me confuse the ugliness of myself
For ocean waves and spring birds
His soft tenor creates an illusion of a truthful beauty
When in reality no truths are beautiful
All those who are honest are usually lonely
No one wants to be told the truth because
They can't handle it
No one wants to acknowledge something they can't handle
And no one
Should be forced to listen to their thoughts when it speaks of truths
That have yet been masked by the
Soft strings of the fender stratocaster Mayer cradles as he
Pours out ballads of lonely nights and broken loves
The biggest flaw about being human
Is the ability to feel for everything
It weakens the soul
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
The Stratocaster was dripping with emotional intensity, whilst my head vibrated against the window of the bus during a deep and innocent slumber.
We fret so much my friend. If I want to adjust the outcome, then I am simply, yet sensitively, required to turn the relevant key.
I fully understand the beat of the red-light area where tragedy and pleasure have disloyal intercourses, and the texture of its currencies are likened to the intricate task of baking cakes in front of a shiny chrome bumper.
Skillful finesse is required if the recesses of our soul are to be tantalised. So, let us celebrate the night.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
the fast car evaporates into the inky darkness
like a hazy thought
in the summer night
like a fervent wish to endure
it rides some backroad near the county line
with some stratocaster echoing sweetly
and a crooner of these latter days
sing-talking bout all some love he had stumbled upon
in the backwoods of childhood
and the flame that endures in his soul for her sweet hand
this song fills the air of the empty road
as the fast car
plymouth grey with primer
her wheels spinning on the dust road
the river run by the metro north tracks
the stratocaster hits the end of its song
but some part of you just wants that song
to go on forever
you just want that midnight run to last forever
cause shes there with you
and she has smiles for you alone
your just like that stratocaster looking for
the opening notes of that song
that'll last forever
that'll be on her lips
be her song
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
Shimmy on an Amen break
belle époque, rockstar
belly dancer.
Hitched up skirt to
crotch-ripped nets , choke
ziggurat louboutins.
A Stratocaster, glitter Sheba
on Hiroshima shadows pouring
snake-hipped ribald, scriptures
from the swelling of her breast
Kneeling, nylon bound and penitent
in a simony of rapture bought
to wet the rubber stamping of
your cattle-battered soles
Low boneyard serotonin glows a
candle wax communion as your
henna painted carry rose
the rivers of my veins.
Your Aramaic shoe-shine boy
*** bitch-slapped drug Messiah
So Dear Mary, it is over you
that I must prophesy.
As you feed the pigs of my disgrace that
fill your head with meat and seed
I'll sup that broken bottle heat that
percolates between your open thighs....
I will be there in the morning a
renaissance scent of cannabis about
your mirrored ceiling....
Jesus wept,
Sweet Magdalen
The thought of you will
gather storms within me
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
kiss me love
love me tender
strum my heart like a fender stratocaster
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
*His gift was liquid melody
It collected at the brow , trickled
down his face , splattered onstage ,
it soaked the score page , invited
his following to engage , provided a
river of thought , he shared freely of his
complicated mind then suddenly he was gone* ...
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 12:45 AM UTC
*Walk outside , aim that Marshal
stack in the direction of City Hall
and grind a power chord like nobody's
ever heard before , send the birds flying
for cover , rattle the windows on every
street corner
Hit the high E string at the 22nd fret
and let it feedback like the world is about to
end* ...
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 1:02 AM UTC
I'm scared of silence
Lately, I distrust my thoughts
Because I don't like the voices in my head that find the confidence to speak up during the lateness of nights.
I always hear them whisper misery
An uninvited company that lacks the courtesy to find its way out.
On nights like these it hits me.
The only reason I keep replaying John Mayer
Is because when he sings he sings
about a common trouble.
And opens up for me to escape.
He descants in a melody that makes me bemuse the ugliness of myself.
Leaving me with an atlas mapped out with a road trip planned to a destination far from my current state.
Mayer leaves me numbed with talks of the ocean waves and train rides in Georgia
All escaping in his
soft tenor that beautify my afflictions.
When in reality nothing painful is beautiful
Nothing beautiful should ensue from agony
Purple and black fingerprints left on a woman's face should never be mistaken for finger paintings.
I'm not one to speak
For I lack the ability to handle my own complications.
Problems arising from all corners of my life have me centered in a hallow room compiled with letters addressed to myself.
Who are you becoming?
Why should I love you?
What makes you important?
Questions I still stutter upon when answering
They should be memorized by now but the inauthenticity of it has me living life a hollow.
A vacant in my own true skin.
But seems to find a home in everyone else's business.
I tell myself it's just a distraction.
We all need distractions from ourselves.
Leaving questions unanswered and feelings bare.
But soon to be left masked once again by the
Soft strings of the fender stratocaster Mayer caress on lonely nights.
While pouring out ballads of long loves and solitude he tells me that I'm perfect lonely.
And I believe him.
Though something is missing.
I believe him.
And I take it.
Besides the greatest flaw about being a human
Is the ability for one to feel [for everything].
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
I got my first guitar when I was 10 years old.
It was a navy blue Ibanez from guitar center.
It was used and when I played it
It sounded like a shriek more than anything of music, but it was mine.
I’ll never forget the first time I sat in a soundproofed room at that music school
With Jimi Hendrix posters on the wall, playing the riff of “Satisfaction" by The Rolling Stones completely off beat
and thinking to myself that I had found magic.
Back then, metal strings still made my fingers bleed
and I used to forget song formats and my rhythm was horrible no matter how often I used a metronome.
My second guitar was a matte black Jackson with a sharp headstock.
I drew flowers on it with a white sharpie and took out springs in the back
Which made the bridge float until it was almost unplayable.
But I didn’t notice and I didn’t care because it was mine and
I still played with my eyes closed and sang off key
I used to scream the lyrics to Green Day songs and I felt like I knew who I was
I used to be unafraid and though
Posters on the walls were replaced, white walls were painted dark gray somehow that school still felt like home
With music blaring through practice rooms
I think I’m always going to miss the sound of music
Not professional, produced
Not crisp and clean, but raw music played by teenagers who could eat 6 boxes of pizza in 20 minutes.
I remember walking in the rain to the CVS across the street
Joking and laughing
I remember growing up with friends that became a family
My third guitar was a Fender Stratocaster, sea foam green.
I bought it used and the fretboard is chipped but its mine.
Now my hair is its natural, bleak dark brown and I prefer indie to hard rock but I am still me.
And I don’t think I’ll ever become the musician I once wanted to be
But I know that music is seared into my soul
And that’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 8:28 AM UTC
She rolled onto the stage
In spandex laced with studs
Electric guitars squealing
The same ol' worn out crud.
The drumbeats and the bongos
That thudding telltale beat
She knew she wasn't nothin'
But a screamin' piece of meat.
*[Chorus]
The Music Man got holda her
Gripped her wild mane
With dreams of mansions on the hill
Dreams of wealth & fame.
There's so much more insida me!
So much more to art!
Got a Stratocaster body
And a plain ol' mandolin heart.*
Then the music changed around
To a funky Kind of Blue
Her bassist & guitar men
Sported their tattoos.
She did not start out this way
No, she started small
In a little bluegrass band
Sayin' "come on back, y'all..."
[Chorus]
At the backstage party
She showed up but didn't stay
She was all smiles & wiles
Then just faded away.
She got in her Maserati
She left all alone
She said goodbye to no one...
She turned her wheels toward Home.
**Bridge:
She wanted to get lost in it
Forget her humble start
But the Hollywood music machines
Only tear apart
Now she longed for MORE than meals
Eaten a la carte
She broke the Stratocaster
Played her plain ol' mandolin heart.**
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 3:17 AM UTC
There were four of us
Roger, Linda, Roy and me
All smoking too much
Banter and chatter fluttered
Roger was quieter than usual
But I think he was decades in the past
Nevertheless, as we smoked more
He got into the swing of things
As the clock's hands moved on
We were just killing time
At last we decided it was time
And we all piled into Linda's car
As we reached the end of the road
The hearse slowly drove across us
Then we saw the guitar on the coffin
His crazy old pink stratocaster
And the years softly fell away
In that wooden box lay our old friend
Memories of his twisted humour
The way he held his arms when he laughed
The way he played that pink guitar
And his wild imagination
All gone forever
By Phil Roberts
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 11:32 AM UTC
*The evening winter sky panel resembles the stained windows
at the Methodist Church
Though I dare not enter I'm sure it's a beautiful
place
Awe inspiring like the first light of day upon my
face , the morning view from a hillside home place
The ringing bells on Sunday morning chime like a
Stratocaster with a touch of chorus
I wonder if they have a guitar somewhere behind the pulpit
The Baptist Church has a picker I've been told
Avoiding religion religiously ensures that I will
never really know* ..
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
my stomach
is nothing but
cheap coffee
my internet history
is nothing but
queer love poems
and my mind
is nothing but
you and i
and you and i
and you and i
i want
a fender stratocaster
with a leather strap
i want a loft apartment
with a beautiful view
but most of all
i want you
back here with me
holding you and
holding you and
holding you
when your hand brushed mine
for the first time
that day in november
my heart fluttered
i wondered
what would my daddy say
if he knew i felt this way
about you
about us
now here i am
i don't know how it started
or why it ended
all i know is
you're the only one i miss
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Yngwie Malmsteen shredded on six strings,
set a new standard that was baroque beyond imagining.
The virtuoso rocker was a guitarist's guitarist,
a neoclassical metalhead strumming a Stratocaster like no other.
He impressed those in the know with his technical expertise.
He never struck a chord with a mainstream audience.
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC
I'm a death head
I'm a mess head
Where am I going next head
I'm a sparse crank in a green bottle
I'm a brown paper bag in a jug of wine
I'm live bait
I'll never satiate my master
But I'll always be a death head
Towards away stratocaster
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC