Poems 2018


13th November 2018

The Guitarist, 2018

The guitarist plucks at his strings
the metallic tumult begins.
Like legends of some Gothic age
being given eagle-like wings.
We can see the shape of the man
on the venue’s dimly lit stage.

Rage breeds, as the vocalist roars,
slapping shockwaves into your face,
as the mounting tension outpours,
wielding thunderbolts like a sword,
the drums set the thunderous blows
of the songs that everyone knows.

The man is a god of the strings.
His open shirt showing his chest
and the sweat to his jawbone clings
they all know that he is the king
the greatest that they’ve ever seen,
and their excitation takes wing.

As they savour the savage sound
the crowd waves their lighters around,
fists clenching, they punch at the air,
prodding fingered horns at the crew.
For people, the devil may care,
if he misses a note or two.

As they watch the twist of his hips,
enthralled by his glistening hair,
they long for the touch of his lips.
For them, he is Eros defined.
Their clamour is not for his mind
his pulsating body is there.

At the end of the set he bowed
and the crowd erupts in applause
the screaming and shouting are loud.
Off stage, the musician withdraws,
and his heart is swelling with pride
and, of him, the band is so proud.

The musicians start packing away.
They pick up their amps, and feel strong.
The performance turned out quite well,
for many they cannot go wrong.
Tonight’s gig – a very big throng –
and next time, more tickets they’ll sell.

Pursuing the call of the bars,
stinking with old perspiration,
the stubble of weeks on his chin –
ready to conquer the nation,
Guitarist’s about to begin
his meteor rise to the stars.

So when he is in the arenas,
thousands of fans, grouped in thickets,
Will he recall the admirers,
the ones he began to impress,
the fans who first bought the tickets,
thus paving his road to success?

Will singer think back to the start,
when playing those shit-venue dives,
the small ones he had to endure,
for the sake of his grinding art,
as he plods on, tour after tour,
will he think back to all those lives?

Does he love those women that crave
masculinity, music and charm?
Girls worship the man who gets pissed,
the man who can do them no harm,
the singer who’se always the rage:
the legend call The Guitar-ist.

 

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