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Poem

acoustic guitar in his hands
with hair falling down or
shoegazing with tight black jeans or
black leather, his
bulge showing,
thick, long,
like a python growing &
slinking down his inner thigh
&
sweat rolling down or
perhaps the oil that gets sprayed on
him by the cronies trying to market him
like PEZ,
straddling his Les Paul
like it was an eager Friday night groupie or
riding his Fender as if he thought it was his
last night before a 10 year stint &
her heart beats like a Labor Day parade drum
roll, eyes wide like she’s been chomping on
black beauties (as if they were M & M’s) 
all early morn,
nipples hard, moist down below, vein pumping
in her neck with the need to
grind out her own satisfaction---
so she worships at the alter of the man &
another ticket’s been sold.

strutting in tight jeans that hug the curves or
tight lycra, tight mini skirt, tight 
anything
that pulls right up, leaving nothing to the 
imagination, with
breasts heaving,
hips swaying,
coated in oil (showered on her by the PEZ
marketers),
lips dripping lip gloss &
a Lez Paul between her legs,
or a microphone gripped tight in her hands
bringing it up to her mouth,
she stares back at him with the bass 
pounding into his brain---
he is sprung & hard as a rock,
vein in his neck pulsating in rhythm with
the bass,
wanting nothing more than to 
consummate his craze
by climbing up on stage---
so he is devoted to her every word,
bathing in idolatry &
another ticket’s been sold.

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