Oh the innocence of pure lust…

a sleek Les Paul and a stack of Marshall amps,

The desire to be a rock star,

Not for the sexual opportunities,

But for the approval,

The desire to be venerated…

The desire to belong.

A black and silver specked premier drum kit,

A invitation to be accepted as a nutter,

Because the beat you sold was rocksteady,

And every band needs a beat master,

I didn’t want to wreck hotel rooms,

I wanted to feel that buzz,

When everyone connected

to the groove.

A Fender Jazz bass sunburst,

Still sounds like pure pornography,

Standing with my back to the crowd,

attuned only to the buzzing beat of the drummer,

Smiling to each other as you become one.

Thumb and forefinger producing

A perfect reason for opposable thumbs.

Or even a mini moog synth…

Antiquated now but then a revelation,

Developing loops and whirls,

That took music in new exciting directions…

And finally,

being naked with just a mic stand to hide you,

The chance to hold the audience

in your hands,

Could you do it?

More pertinent, could I do it?

Patently I could not!

I had the stage craft and the look,

But I could not sing.

Even the Punk revolution,

With amateurish vocals

Did not shift the culture

Far enough to make my voice acceptable.

I still lust for the accoutrements of music,

Still wish that someone had showed me how.

I would have been happy then,


do you think?

Dale M 2021

Published by

I am a writer of words and a righter of wrongs. I aim to change the world, one person at a time.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: