I plugged my 335 into the Marshall.
Humbuckers groan; bridge pickup, tone on ten.
Scoop mids o’th’amp face, gain to four or five.
Pick tight in sweated grip, yet loose of wrist
Lest oscillation threaten smoother runs.
A final tune before the final tune -
The G is flat, forever fucking flat.
A touch of chorus, hint of stomped delay.
Wah cocked to cream the edges of the tone.
I strum a chord, you know, a power chord;
That interval of strength, just one and five,
Harmoniously crunching through the waves
And resonating violence in my soul.
My mind is blank. I feel and so do they,
Jerking o’th’downbeat; ecstasies of four.
A dream in cherry red once craved come true.
I’d heard its grinding roar through teenage...