I don’t think so.
Not backstage, deep-seated in sunken cushions,
Playing hot potato with six joints.
Not in the pit,
Where eyes are fangs
Feeding off flesh
Fresh off the skillet.
So you think you can play guitar, eh?
I remember back in the day,
I would’ve shone my shoes with your stage sweat,
And one day, me and my guitar will take you down.
We will unleash your women,
We will put you back in your place.
Like honey, they will slide out the mouth of your jar,
Stuck together in your sticky skin.
When you sucked the honey
From their hives, you made them second mommies to your egos.
II. Thrown back into the pit,
I float between the fists,
Thrown amidst the anger,
Testosterone drips, taking a toll
On my body.
Faster, faster, feed off the anger,
The sexual tension,
The cathartic release –
“stand back, sweetie….”
Eyes grope tits
I am a just another boy
Oozing with desire,
Smothered in sweat and beer,
Thrown into the sticky center,
Then bloody and broken, reeling.
To all the boy bands I’ve moshed to before –
One day fresh pussy will find your corpses in the catacombs,
Enbalmed in guitar dust,
Blown to bits by honey sweet kisses
And nectarine goddess giggles.