Reissue

Because I’ve been busy, here’s one from way back:

 

There’s something about you.  Like a ‘68 GTO. Maybe more like a Le Mans.

It’s a shape.  You are not an understated body, that is no lie.  You got that balled up lithe look of a mountain lion in a tree.  When you move, you ripple and your skin moans mercury over your muscle and lank.

But sometimes you remind me of a litre sized Ducati.  Yeah, piped up and jetted out.

It’s a rumble you do.  Not all the time, just every so often.  Your voice falls to some demon contralto like a right angle twin with desmo valves and a open inducted throat.  I can feel it in the floor and in my skin and it’s asking and begging to have the throttle wide open and the motor mounts straining.

Maybe you’re like my Jag.

Something different and sort of perfect and never the same.  You respond.  There’s no settling into it.  The way you can strip off the gray and blue and cotton sensible civilization covering you up and slide into silky sheer red instinctual animal skin.

And then claim it isn’t for me.

You hate the blues.

But if rock and roll is really just spit and sweat and Black Snake Moan, then you’ve got it down.

Yeah, Five to One, baby, one in five.

No one here get’s out alive.