A Guitar Poem

I play a five string, out of tuned and greasy

Plastic casted with an oaken crayola finish

kind of neutered

Mattel style always slipping sort of guitar,

an acoustic tone, pulsar

And sometimes I make it move

And I move too and ask

all the stars of destiny simple

yes or no

questions about man and mind all the while

clit tickling those strings,  reshaping

their chords clenched in orgasm, wrenching, stern and solid

but soft

and pumping blood through the vinyl lines.


streets may hate my sound, appalling to its ears,

but it still slips out onto them

like an auntie’s vodka drunk areola at Christmas, and continues to offend

persistent and begging for a gawking and tongue ruffle between

peace signs.

I move and pour my whisky downward and still play

a prayer to the fuck gods of rock

And roll. Five strings better than



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