My father once said to me, "Son, watch Jim Morrison purse his lips,
With a sliver of breath between him and the microphone head
Watch him gently kiss the notes into its every orifice
Now he rarely opens up his eyes, because he can't help
But see through women's clothing
Watch him clutch the curls of the mic chord like lady locks
Watch the mic stand drips with skin juices
As he wraps his hands around her neck
Watch his loins sweep her off her dome-shaped base
When he slowly swings his left knee around her slim body
Watch as the multitudes shake their tails to the rhythm
Of Jim Morrison rocking the mic
Rocking, rock hard
That, my son, is how you treat a woman"
They call it devil's music
But Lord knows I'm no Voodoo Child like Jimi Hendrix
I am but an overflowing cup of hormones
A puddle of marrow and a trellis of veins
A puppet of bones wrapped in dust
Jamming to the pulling and twisting of guitar strings
If sex is a song then it was written by the first man,
Passed down by songsmiths, and experienced by posterity
If sex is a dance then I only know how to let my limbs
Move with the sonic waves of eroticism that pulse through me
Because up to this point, my ability to rock
Has been mostly self-taught, fine-tuned and furnished,
Ready for the next foxy lady to emerge from a purplish haze
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image credit http://flyingplasticmonkeys.blogspot.com
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