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 ears
As Lifeson rushed his pentatonic licks,
And Clapton’s Cream brought class to temper fire,
And Johnson, prince of tone, unveiled its height.
I soar a whole-tone bend then fall in fives,
Descending to a long forgotten E
And let that .48 ring for a bar.
The pleasured faces haunt me with their smiles
Clapping an idol false, for youthful dreams
Take adulthood to breach and silly games
On fretted boards (Long-trite arpeggios,
Sweep-picked, string-skipped, legato-ed, right-hand-tapped,
However the fuck you’d swing it) become a curse
Of repetition. Practice for a lie.
My mind was blank and heart beat to four-four;
Blood red as the axe that bit my childish fingers.
My callouses have softened over time
As Locrian voices pitch Ionian schemes;
Diminishing the sureties of life,
Augmenting stale departments, dropping cents
Between the tones, squaring the circle o’fifths,
Changing the key of conscience; Musical puns
For everyone - yet no one but myself,
Who knows the biggest joke are those we play
Upon our willing selves: like dreaming sweet
Of cherries red which, having tasted, sour.