MAESTRO

 

Impeccable posture and perfect tux, he arrives. Wider than life, the first thought striking your brain is how much broader his shoulders are. The muscles are much more defined than expected. Then, he has always demonstrated an almost scaringly mechanical control of all of his 700 muscles.

A subtle shift of his wrist, and it begins.

His commanding presence imposes itself on your spinning thoughts. The gracious fingers are so far away, at the opposite end of the stage. However, the feeling of them reaching inside your brain is very much real. There it is, the tender touch gathering all the loose threads of thoughts, carefully wrapping them around his dexterous fingers and strong wrists.

Only when the meticulous harvest of your thoughts is completed, will he start fiddling with your emotions, relentless as the tide, accurate as a surgeon. Suddenly, you know what it feels like to be a Stradivarius in the hands of a prodigy.

The seemingly effortless way with which he conjures rough diamonds from the cliffs of your bottom eyelids is both enthralling and maddening. The unexpected beauty of his face contorting itself is overwhelming. It flicks through a myriad of expressions in the span of a heartbeat. His intense gaze betrays the volcano burning inside. The restrained manners ingrained through the years barely conceal the storm brewing inside.

His voice wraps itself around you, cloaking you from the absurd reality of the world, sometimes soothingly, sometimes oppressively. It carries a thousand souls, a thousand minds, all alike, all desperately human and yet each unique.

The words conveyed are precious. They are essential, they are paramount to the performance, carefully chosen, wielded and delivered, years of practice culminating in a flawless enunciation. Yet, they are meaningless. Superfluous. Unneeded. Everything is already etched in the lines of his face, in the lines of his limbs, in the lines of his moves.

The similarities in between each performance are glaringly obvious, standing proudly at the forefront of the act. It is after all the same face, same eyes same nose same lips same chin same arms same fingers, same body. The variations are subtle, barely noticeable by the conscious eye. Yet, they make all the difference. No matter how many times you both end up in an identical configuration, him flying above on stage and you still in your chair, it will never be the same.

The sad part is that he will never know how much all this means.

And that is precisely the magic of it.

Listening to you

Listening To You

Listening to you
Is like breathing some fresh and salted air
At the top of a cliff
Facing the ocean
Listening to you
Is like running blindly down the streets
Without restrain or reason
To do so, or to stop
Listening to you
Is like a first kiss
Doubts and anticipation
Nervosity and Hopes
Listening to you
Is like sneaking a book
And a lamp under the sheets
To be bad and read instead of sleep
Listening to you
Is like becoming philosophical
Over drinks during the empty hours
Of the young night
Listening to you
Is like taking a nap
In a hammock, under a willow tree
Feel the wind, and the gentle swinging
Listening to you
Is soothing away my worries
And finally feeling
Whole and complete.
Listening to you
Is all i ll ever need.
Listening to you
Is Loving you.
*********************************
To you
Spencer

Ramblings in “O” minor

Today’s been a long day.

And even though it is late, i’m still writing. The clicking of the keys under my fingers is mesmerizing. So I keep typing. Lately I have fled sleep. No dreams, No oblivion, no rest. So I keep typing. Is that part of the Monkey Effect? Whatever. Keep typing. At least, when you’ll wake in the next morning, way too early for the hour you’ll have gone to bed at; there will still be a proof of your insomnia. And if you can’t write: Read. Click. Skim through websites. Then Close everything. And start all over again. Inspiration has to come from somewhere. And in the end, it always come. But , mine always come late these days. Guess it is just following my example. Shit, I should try to be there on time, next time.

We had a party. Put on some make up, brought junk food and alcohol. Played some games. Laughed between friends. But it’s always the same jokes, same topics, and same complaints.

So I come home, each time even more lost and confused, about the directions I should turn too. A bottle of soda losing its bubbles, sweet wrappings randomly abandoned on the table. Well, I’m always late so, I guess it is probably fitting. Stomach rumbling and body in dire need of release. The lazy guitar soothes away the hours as my hair falls endlessly into my eye, stroking my cheek. Not sure it’s going to be enough though.

As I unashamedly skim through someone else pictures, I relish in one certainty. All those pics are full of guitars, and drums. Whoever’s playing, (even if I have my favorite dealers), it’s always the same gestures, the same rituals, to tune the strings, or adjust a microphone. And I find comfort, in those little rituals. Everything changes, I m’ okay with that. I might even say that it never changes fast enough for me.

However, it is nice to have a few things that stay immobile, secure in their places, opposite to my hesitating self. All secured around my neck, in the shape of a yellow guitar pick, hanging on a black string.

Yeah, today’s definitely been a long day.

JRMM

It ain’t going so well
I must go on, so farewell
But each time rings the Bell
I’m in awe and i’m in Hell

The stone disappeared in the well
In silence died my yell
Bluesy rhymes made up a new spell
And suddenly, i saw thru his shell

It ain’t goign so well
Each breath threatens the spell
But inside that crappy hotel
I’m in awe and I’m in Hell

His voice draws a new novel
Makes sure il’ll feel compelled
to stay and listen to that rebel
Following down the well

It ain’t going so well
And I know so fucking well
All the things that made me fell
But ya know…. Heaven can go to Hell

Night Time

The night has come already
After a long and lonely day
The words stayed away
As the long hours flew by fleetingly

I’m rediscovering this song
Though I know all the lyrics by heart
They really sound different tonight
Some kind of strange peace settling along

The quiet rythm of his verse
Charming the words back
and I feel empty and calm
as they settle on the tips of my fingers

The scent of the winter night
the sea of my feelings, frozen for an instant
One of those eternal moments
As cold slips from the bright, unwavering stars

No beer or smoke pollutes the atmosphere
Nothing more is needed
Unfortunately i’ll end up falling asleep
And lose grasp of this moment, so dear

As I relearn what I really love
In your words
In your chords
And find solace in that rebirth

That guitar

The only light

Is the tip of that cigarette

Casting shadows on your cheekbones

enhancing the power of those

fuckingly green eyes

That won’t ever let me go.

The guitar in your lap

Lays soundless

Though it is crime

for once i’ll let it go

Your long hair

Strangely black

Hangs disorderly

around your face

Even matted and uncombed

it suits you.

That wildness inside

Hidden being that angel face

They would give you the keys of heaven

without waiting for a confession

God knows all the bad things you’ve done

And yet who really cares

as you’re laying back against the stone wall

Defenceless

That arrogance

and captivating confidence

That usually gets you all the girls

is vaporising in the smoke

that hangs loosely around your lips

And god I can tell

It’s all a fuckin’ game

Your chin is not properly shaven

Some hair showing shyly at the corner of your mouth

Tonight,  your vest is on the floor

the tie has disappeared

and your shirt is off

the performer has disappear

and you’re just there

Without being here

Even though those piercing eyes

Burning fiercely, fighting with the cigarette

Proving they can be more intense

that the tobacco

between your teeth

Continue to stare

right at me

thru me

and far away

past me

The gold and silver

The glitter and spotlights

all those have disappeared

But not the talent of your voice

And I wish more people

would see that

Forget about what’s hidden

behind  your zipper

And just notice

the raw passion

and talent inside

that fit body of yours

And I can’t help but notice

the coldness around us

as I focus back on your face

engraved on my eyelids

Even though

it’s just

a fucking’ illusion

And I hope you’re smiling

Wherever you are

for real

And I hope you’re laughin’

Wherever you’re heading

right now.

And I desperately hope

that this trick of my mind

Is just a bad spirit

Playing with my brain

I still wonder

About the cracks I saw in your face

When I told you I bled for you

And I don’t know

if you believe it or not

But then, right now

You’re just a figment of my imagination

I’m a junkie

So addicted to your voice

But then no one really cares

It ‘s not illegal to listen to music

Even though, it is as powerful as heroin

As destructive even those times

When I could follow you

down there in the shades

Withdraw for that world entirely

And lie next you,

sharing that guitar

Eating , sleeping,

time going by

nothing would matter

And i would die

right there,

in the dark, the speaker still blaring your voice

the sound of your tongue on your teeth

The sound is so precise,

I can hear your saliva

And it’s as if I was tasting your lips

Yet that would be incest

To me

So

Share your cigarette

Though I don’t smoke,

I don’t really care

It ‘s just a dream

A fuckingly good dream

Where I could finally tell you

And maybe get to know you

As a real being

It’s ironic right?

Tonight I’ll lay beside you

nursing the ache of being alone

No one touching my skin

No one touching my soul

No one touching

No one

Apart from

That guitar

To someone I care for,

even though he doesn’t know of my existence.

A glass full of Whiskey for you, Man...

Little Lady

Lil’ Lady

Lil’ Lady, in her black high heels
So cheery, and so bouncy
Lil Lady, and her high-pitched squeals
So noisy, and so fuckin’ crazy

And you flash me your playful smirk
and you tell me Come on Cowboy, let’s go downhill
And you show me a bit of your black lacies
Your playful spirit makes everythin’ so carefree

Lil’ Lady, barely 5 feet 3
No boy could ever forget her teasin’ hips
Lil’ Lady, please have some mercy
It’s gettin’ so hard in here damnit

And you lean closer to me
And you shake your head, showin’ you disagree
And you whisper in my ear, no pity for ya sweetie
Payback gleamin’ in your eyes, those two shiny, flashy devils

Lil’ Lady, will never be happy
Says she’ll never be satisfied, if she goes easy on me
Lil’ Lady, always says the blame’s on me
Shouldn’t play that damn guitar so sexily

And you show off that cleavage makin’ my breath hitch
And you keep on swayin’ in front of me, makin’ me gulp nervously
And you’re makin’ it so fuckingly hard Baby
But I’ll never deny that pleasure to you don’t worry

Lil’ Lady, doesn’t  care for no ring
She’s stalkin’ my music, oh please God help me
Lil’ Lady,  knows how addicted I’m to her dancin’
When she gets high and crazy on my music.

And the deal’s always the same, no touchin’ for me just keep hummin’
And she’s reaching  down my spine, awfully feline, yeah keep singin’
And her boobs crashin’ on my chest make me defenceless Jeez’
She keeps her game goin’ subtely renderin’ me crazy with need

Lil’ Lady, lil’ witch never spends the night with me
Always disappears in the night, stealthily
Lil’ Lady, I wish I knew where you’re goin’
Better not be to give your lust to another body Darlin’

Lil’ Lady, will come back one of those gigs I’ll be playin’
She always did, makin’ sure I can’t get her out of my skin,
Lil’ Lady, one of those nights, you’ll come for me

And I swear this time, I’ll be fuckin’ ready to take it

Lil’ Lady

Oooohooo


Lil’ Lady

Little Pandora’s Box


This text was written listening to the song Krazy Glue, from Spencer Bell : http://www.spencerbellmemorial.eu

I offered this text to some musicians, cause it has been begging to become a song. However, they proably weren’t interested. I guess it was naive to believe and hope for an answer.