A Guitar Strung with Barbed Wire
is easy on the eyes but a bitch on the fingers. When I open the case the mouths gape like carp in a bucket. "You're really not going to play that, are you? Are you? Really?"Strapping it on is not as sexy as it sounds. The barbs glisten as I slide the cord into the jack and thrust the other end into the speaker. Flipping the switch I sense the implications of all this. I twist the tuners in vain; the barbs grind against the frets and someone calls out, "Play it, you crazy hillbilly Joseph Glidden sonofabitch."
There was nowhere else for this story to go: I julienned my fingers on them damned strings.
"Play 'Mobile, Mobile Alabama,'" she said as the crimson ribbons drizzled into an Autumn Rhythm at her feet.
"Now play 'What Difference Does It Make." My hands are stumps at this point, and with a smirk she tosses her Stoli on the wounds. I burst like a Buddhist, and nothing can surprise me now.
Copyright 2006 max jukes and Brian Edward Hack. No reproduction or other use of this material without the expressed written permission of the author.
Labels: Barbed wire, Curtis Gordon, Guitars, Jackson Pollock, The Smiths, Vodka
posted by max jukes @ 8:10 AM
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