he strums the girl
on her ninth fret
hearing the noises she makes does not please
him who eats the faces
of bra-less girls in white t-shirts
he knows only the words cunt, song, sleep
that wide-eyed,
frothy-mouthed,
devil-fingers,
holy-hands
diviner of legs
and diner of little girls
the hordes will do anything for him
each individual is a whim, a song, a promise
the sex fuels the music
the carelessness feeds the sound
like warm cum sluicing through the input cords
and gelling inside.
the girls give him something to thrust to
and with his eyes he picks their innocence
so many bra-less girls in white t-shirts
inside me, he fingers an e minor
his hand touches my inner strings
strumming, strumming, .
down to a climax that i conjure
but he steals
and as he hits that high,
sweat breaks his brow
and he smiles,
a big, crooked-toothed grin
that lets me know, as far away as he is
as sweaty
as diseased
as obese and coarse,
and as many times as he has fucked me inside out
and over before -
i will rub my tongue from his fingers
to his face
down and up the low e string
like an ebbing tide,
ignoring the base sounds i make on the instrument
he doesn't play that guitar
the jumble of strings and fretboard propped by the couch
a feather of papers, dog-eared and whiskey-stained
that could fill an over-stuffed couch,
the whims flying from his fingertips
like love-bugs in their coital embrace
fetid stance
starchy breath
red, wet skin that needs a healthy meal as much as it needs a bath
skin that peels and bleeds
to show it's master that it's ready to make more music,
to cause more pain,
to fuck more girls into despair and rocketing orgasm
just from watching you play
ripples of diminished sevenths
and A majors
will pleasure you on a ripped, leather couch
for hours, you consent to being the slick, tight, warm thing
that they don't even have to ask you to be.
Mr. EADGBe doesn't need you
he can
and he will throw you away in a scrap heap of cunt
He'll show you how to do it-
play guitar-
sliding his arms over your body in an unnecessary way
and brushing past your soft pink parts
that have NOTHING to do with playing guitar..
it's a vaginal
DEEP
feeling that makes you feel dirty
in the places you thought were only clean
you
bra-less in a white t-shirt-
tied down to a musty, fetid bed with broken e strings
and fucked with the sharp end of a stratocaster.
you-
bra-less in a white t-shirt-
if you weren't a slut already,
they'll pop your strings for you
you-
bra-less in a white t-shirt-
feigning sleep in a studio
sprawled on pages of hand-written lyrics and tablature
mocking the process
halting their progress
giving that subliminal sign for them to start the feast
summon the guitar gods with your supple body
ring the dinner bell for the musicians
and spread yourself wide for their discerning fingers
to play those e minors
men who touch every member of their audience
pedophile peaveys
and elderly epiphones-
without discrimination
and without consciousness/conscience
rippling minor chords
making shiver the audience
and showing the pale flush of a boy
who probably needs more sun
than the glory of his own face
him-
sweating through the coldest girl
that wetness of soul and hard wood bodies
him-
four strings, six strings, seven
merely tied up in the epic struggle of
who to fuck tonight
who to promise a song to
who to strum
him-
giving me that guitar look
after giving it to her, and her, and her..
Birth sign: Libra
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