Guitars
Have always been,
a safe port
for this man.
Six strings each,
but to each
and everyone,
its own soul,
its own tone,
its own magic.
Last night,
I got lost
amongst them
Fender, o Cremilda
Inspired me the
Blues, in one
setup of pickups,
inspired me
stoner rock
in another.
Even my so-called
shittiest one,
the cheap Epiphone,
had its profound
deeps, ideal
for dropped-d
settings, Hum
songs, and it
made lose myself
even for a while,
made me forget,
the so-called
hell of a ride
called Venlafaxine
and its withdrawal.
Later on, the Explorer,
yet unnamed,
its sound,
ideal for stunning
rock of ages,
thick distortion,
thick sound,
made me fly
to places I've
thought I'd forgotten
all about.
And there so
many others I yet
I so yearn to,
must still have them,
the Fender Mustang,
the Fender Jaguar,
The Fender Telecaster.
And so many more,
oh so many
My beloved SG,
I've only held it
on my, at the time,
timid hands,
and it growled,
oh it growled,
like a proper
monster of
hard rock,
The Fender Jazzmaster,
Swervedriver's
Adam Franklin
Favourite,
oh I gotta have it,
much like the
Strato, yet much
warmer,
inspired me
throughout
the most
difficult of times
while I listened,
taken aback, to
the wailing sound
of the wah-wah
recorded on "Duress",
the definitive
Swervedriver
Sound, the song
that caught me
unaware,
and made me
fall in love for it,
instantly,
and forever.
Six strings,
a bunch
of pickups,
Different woods
and different
sounds.
All led to my
heart,
somehow,
and let it soar,
throughout
the nightmare.
It even, dare I say,
turned it into
another thing entirely,
a barrage of
power chords,
through oh so many
effects in my
boombox,
my amp,
my fingers,
my soul.
Yes, I still
have one,
but I've found
out, it only
talks when I'm
doing something
creative,
even though
I don't really
know how to
properly play them,
not professionally, no.
But my amateur
instincts, turned
into something
else, a thing
with substance
and feeling,
or feelings,
Each and
everyone,
turned me into
a different
kind of person,
while I plucked
and strummed,
made all sort of
mistakes that
my rusted skills
made me do,
yet I felt alive,
so alive,
so full of meaning,
much different
from staring
at a monitor,
while the printer
jammed, the internet
connections
failed, and my Gmail
wouldn't work
at least not on my
computer.
I got home,
confused and
deranged,
turned to my
so-called "women"
my ladies,
six strings,
different pickups,
different woods
and bindings,
to each her own,
feelings and tone,
sounds yet to be
found, by this
deranged man.
Six fucking strings,
man.
Two or three pickups,
each and everyone,
had something
different to sing
to me, to the
unfortunate
neighbours,
(fuck 'em)
I was alive,
I felt alive
for the first
time during said
day, a sad day,
I'd be lying
if I told you,
they don't bring
me heart. They do.
They brought me
a heart, and a soul,
that I thought
forever lost,
in the meantime
I was messing
with them.
Blessed ladies,
I bow to you.
Six strings,
a bunch of
pickups,
and to each
and everyone,
its hidden
possibilities
its hidden
melodies.
Its hidden...
Heart.
And soul.
Through my fuzz,
not on my head,
mind you,
but the box I'd
purchased,
throughout shameful
borrowed money,
they've soared,
along with me,
my heart,
my soul.
Six strings,
thank thee.
O my dear ladies,
my beloved
"things", as the
layman would
call them,
my Ladies,
beautiful Ladies,
you are the
love I'd lost.
You are the
soul I still
got.
Thank you,
each and everyone,
different woods,
bindings,
electricals,
knobs
and whatnot.
Each and
everyone,
led me to
a hidden
portion
of an almost
forgotten
part of me,
this so-called
Monster,
it made me feel
like I was human
once again,
even slightly
out of tune,
out of rhythm,
they helped me
truly helped me
throughout the
nightmare
of this experience
I'm having
with my fucked up
brain chemistry,
I let go,
Almost completely,
and soared throughout
impossible combinations
of said six strings,
to each his own,
feeling and inspiration,
Yeah, I made
a lot of noise,
fucked the
neighbourhood
peace and quiet,
but it had to be
done, to me.
For me.
Because, as
noisily it might
have sounded,
to the silent
neighbourhood,
it made all the
sense I was looking
for, throughout
this pain,
this mess,
that has turned
out to be
in my brain.
Let 'em rip,
plucked and
strummed,
distorted
or clean,
twisted
by the effects
on my pedalbox,
different tunings,
different sounds.
To each and
everyone,
my heart found
a kind of peace
I was yearning,
so dearly wanted,
to grant me
a night's peace
of mind,
a mostly beloved
distraction,
or so,
to the strange
and awful
feelings
I've been
experiencing
these days.
Six strings Ladies,
you were my
lovers, my whores,
if so unjustfully
forgotten,
sitting on your cases,
away from my
now callused fingertips,
the tips of my heart,
the tips of my soul,
the very edge
of my creativity,
even noisily,
you brought me
life,
you brought me
joy,
a joy I'd almost
forgotten all
about.
So thank thee,
my Ladies,
for bringing
this life
back to me.
For bringing
me soul,
to this soulless
corpse.
I Thank thee,
and regret I
don't have 'em
all, not yet.
Because I know
to each her own,
to each her soul,
to each her tone,
woods, binding
and glue...
or screws,
binding it all
together,
to those
pieces of
magic, of heart
and soul,
hidden beneath
the dreadful
chemicals,
the painful
withdrawal
I'm yet experiencing.
You brought me ease,
brought me peace,
brought me a sweet
time, as I awkwardly
played, each and
everyone,
in its own way,
its own feelings,
its own soul.
Soul.
Heart.
Feeling.
Each
and
everyone,
has one of a kind.
And it melted
together,
as I melted myself,
awkwardly,
strumming and
plucking,
distorting
and twisting,
each
and everyone
led me to
a different place,
a different sound,
a different tone,
a different song.
Thank you all,
O my beloved Ladies,
for bringing me life
throughout
difficult times.
Six strings.
Humbuckers
or single coils,
each and everyone,
made me a bit
more human,
a bit more sane,
even though
what I was
playing sounded
insane,
deranged,
out of tune,
out of rhythm,
you made me
realize,
that I still got it.
A heart,
and soul,
that's yearning
to be free,
throughout
my very own
callused fingertips,
the tips of my
heart,
the tips of my
soul,
the long lost
creativity,
that I'd thought
forever lost.
Thank thee,
My ladies.
For bringing
me Rock,
Blues,
Stoner Rock,
Muffled strums,
plucked wailings,
mistakes,
so many of them,
but it's natural,
I'm yet rusted,
for I unjustly
treated them,
forgetting
about them,
forgetting
about
the
so
many
possibilities,
only you Ladies
bring, to this
middle-aged man,
this troubled soul,
that found a strange
peace through "noise"
and distortion,
fuzz or echo,
overdrive and chorus,
tremolo or flanger,
the wet sound of
phaser, the weird
harmonist, and
even weirder rotary.
Six strings.
So many sounds.
I salute thee,
for bringing me
sense, to a
nonsensical
day.
For filling me up
with desire,
with a strange
kind of joy.
Thank thee,
O Six String Ladies.
