admiring fans

acoustic guitar in his hands

with hair falling down or

shoegazing with tight black jeans or

black leather, his

bulge showing,

thick, long,

like a python growing &

slinking down his inner thigh

&

sweat rolling down or

perhaps the oil that gets sprayed on

him by the cronies trying to market him

like PEZ,

straddling his Les Paul

like it was an eager Friday night groupie or

riding his Fender as if he thought it was his

last night before a 10 year stint &

her heart beats like a Labor Day parade drum

roll, eyes wide like she’s been chomping on

black beauties (as if they were M & M’s)

all early morn,

n*****s hard, moist down below, vein pumping

in her neck with the need to

grind out her own satisfaction---

so she worships at the alter of the man &

another ticket’s been sold.

 

strutting in tight jeans that hug the curves or

tight lycra, tight mini skirt, tight

anything

that pulls right up, leaving nothing to the

imagination, with

breasts heaving,

hips swaying,

coated in oil (showered on her by the PEZ

marketers),

lips dripping lip gloss &

a Lez Paul between her legs,

or a microphone gripped tight in her hands

bringing it up to her mouth,

she stares back at him with the bass

pounding into his brain---

he is sprung & hard as a rock,

vein in his neck pulsating in rhythm with

the bass,

wanting nothing more than to

consummate his craze

by climbing up on stage---

so he is devoted to her every word,

bathing in idolatry &

another ticket’s been sold.