Saturday, June 15, 2019

The guitarist that night

Just thinking about the guitarist that night,
who can sing of love
in the most contorted fashion
until the word has lost all loveliness,
spat out as you would
if you kept knives under your tongue
like some exotic killer, and wounded,
shredded someone once close to you.
More painful than any of Cupid's arrows,
(that cute little darling in the loincloth
shooting at the unsuspecting,
while claiming innocence),
the guitarist shrivels you
with his kind of love.


©2019

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