They say guitars are like women — In that you can rent a spare
but good ones are hard to find, and bad ones are everywhere.
I can still remember where our eyes met.
The moment feeling so surreal.
Your whole appearance was cold and steeled yet it still held its own appeal.
I motioned nearer, balance shifting beneath my feet from one to the next
while lost in the mesmerising magnetism your body possessed.
You were a model exemplified, looking hot in any case,
your frock accentuating the curves set atop your slender frame.
You belonged on centre stage.
You had such a perfect arrangement tonally
that even though not a word was exchanged,
You spoke to me.
I only realised later on that this fool was out his depth,
when the same strap used to bound your head became a noose around my neck.
I should have threw you out instead of bringing you into my home
I never had you pinned as controlling,
but I did as you told me while you pulled the strings for us both.
You were instrumental in goading me to force my hand in obeying your command
If I ignored you at home, it struck a chord so bad — of course you snapped!
I hadn’t always had performance anxiety;
Now I was devoid of all energy.
My aching joints were already bleeding, yet you needed to destroy what was left of me.
Your voice, once a melody, always rich and honeyed before
became a noise that was bellowing into a guttural roar.
A strumming of chords pinged and twanged with unusual weight and key
- it was no longer me orchestrating things, but YOU that was playing me!
You were so attuned to my way of being that you were soon able to play
from the hand movements I favoured to the complex chord changes I made.
I became a mere plaything, your most loyal nominal subject,
that followed instructions as your vibrato pulsed through my body’s percussion.
You controlled each one of my functions as the screams grew louder within
and you constantly pushed me to perform out of my skin.
You overpowered my instinctive touch to make me play as desired.
Every hour,
Every minute,
Every second take I required.
We laboured so tirelessly I hardly slept a wink for a month
Yet you insisted the strumming continued even though my fingers were numb.
The habitual becoming ritual, my fingertips blackened and burnt,
as we practiced infernally until I performed like a master at work.
I’d damaged the nerve-endings in my right hand and could no longer feel any pain
— not like that would discern you from insisting on hearing me play.
Drying blood congealed on my nails where I’d worn my fingers to bone
Every signature solo was like a jolt of electric current as I picked at the notes.
You hissed at me slowly, the sound reverberated inside my skull fearful with shock,
You give me your own directives as my open sores plead you to stop.
Instead you’re increasing the volume while my skeletal frame
was desperately playing with what little remaining oxygen was left in my veins.
My legs would give way, causing me to drop to my knees,
my body so weak its brittle bones broke on impact with the concrete beneath.
None of my features remained. I lived guitar but never thought I’d be dying from it
and the only head that rolled would be mine separated from spinal column.
My mind was conscious even at the point of it hitting the floor
Some musicians have swore to put their heart and soul into this.
Yet few truly give it their all…