In Flames

It’s like those first few bars of a Junior Kimbrough song.  It’s dirty and thick and choked up on fucking electric lemonade.  And god lives somewhere up under the next cotton dress, according to the Reverend Ray Wylie Hubbard. 

It’s like stacking up the front side of your amp with a fuzzface before the tubes take over.  The tubes are like butter, but the fuzz box is straight uncut cane sugar bubbling up in to caramel.

McKinley Morganfield knew it.  Etta James sang it.  The blues ain’t nothin but a bunch of fucking, he said. 

It is possible I am the biggest hornball on earth. 

At least one of a few.  She got the devil in her, and feels like doing something wrong. 

You’re trouble, she said.

I laughed at her and she slapped me.  She smelled like a bar and she was strong like a drunk. 

Whatever, I said.  If I’m trouble, why you still standing here?

I should probably stick to fighting when I’m Wild Turkey drunk.  Keeps me out of trouble.