Miss Hendrix

Posted: November 22, 2010 in Uncategorized

A spitting cobra full of fire and electric fury;
Distorted views on things, she’s got her own way of making you cry.
Calm and collected, measured and mean, making her own scene through force and a scream.

Her man makes love to her on a stage, in full view of the populace;
Calloused fingers run down that neck of steel and ivory drenched in silk, tender touches.
Fucking fast and keeping careful watch on the reactions of the crowd, lost and proud.

Smashes into the side of the wall, hums angry and slides shocked headfirst into feedback;
Draw her back, take it nice and slow with a trembling dose of wavering tremolo.
Let her feel hot heated skin against molten mahogany; take a deep broken breath of static.

“Take anything you want from me,” she whispers soft, fluttering and wilting in his arms;
He runs his hands along her body with a perfect precision indigenous to his touch.
Strums the sunburst stretching tobacco-orange and soft across her belly.

Fingers play at her, drawing moans and wails in a sinful composition;
Silver strands plucked, her hair is tousled from lack of sleep: his fault.
Physically abused and left with blood staining her chest, she frets not.

She is that willing slave, used and misused for the pleasure of the crowd;
Made to sing with that solid pain that issues from that amp exploding with her thoughts.
Scream, baby, scream; that voice will echo through generations long after you’ve stopped.


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