Air Guitar

for Tad

Now that the radiance of day
has been sucked into the hole
beyond those distant hills,
I am lying alone and listening,
hands clasped behind my head,
staring at the ceiling.
I take up the guitar,
on which I am a virtuoso,
and take a bottle-neck slide riff
for Bonnie, a bass-line tumble
for Flea. Eric, you're the man,
but you concentrate on the lyrics,
I'll rip on this solo. Neil,
you cajole the crowd,
I'll strike the thunderous chords,
the cacophonic feedback. Hey hey
my my, listen to me tear up
this thirty-two bar, one note solo.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Meade
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!