Mind Dance

Just play,
for me and
no one but,
this is my fuckin song,
you wrote it for me,
so play.

So she played, with gusto. The chords ripped from the strings. The echo was faint, but audible. The volume was cranked up to the max, the vibrations were palpable, travelling up my spine to tingle the lobes of my brain. This was better than any crack ever could be.

So she played,
for me and
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

Like she had a choice. Its hard to disagree with a .45 in your face. So she played, fast and hard. The tempo was building to my favourite part of the song. The riff here is almost perfection, thats how I know she wrote it for me and me alone.

So she played,
for me and
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

Foot tapping rhythm burst from the speakers. The Marshall amp was tuned to hint subtle distortion. The mix left you numb if you let it. This was music how it was meant to be. Soul shaking rock n roll. You could not find this at no fuckin crossroads. You could not make no deals with the fuckin devil either. He was never this good.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

The beat slowed, just for a few seconds. Twisted chords sang their own song, somewhat briefly, that was part of the beauty. I don’t know how she did that, but it turned me on. Angels would dance to this song, if it were played in heaven. Instead, it ws just me and her. We danced in our minds, our very own Masque of the Red Death.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

And on she played, never stopping for breath. Her fingers bled, staining the strings red, but still she played. She played as if possessed, backed by the orchestra from hell itself. You couldn’t write music like this. It lived within, you either have it or you dont. She fuckin had it, thats for sure,in bucket loads. She played for me, for me alone, until I told her to stop, which of course I never would. This song fed the soul and was the food I devoured, craved. I could not live without it.

So she played,
for me and,
no one but,
my fuckin song,
written for me,
she played.

So it was to be. This is where we met our demise. Listening to the best fuckin music there ever was or ever likely to be. Here and now, the heart of our Rock n Roll stopped beating, but the music lived on. Encased in our own purgatory, we danced our dance.

Submitted to One Shot Wednesday