Jessica

When my libido gets up

in fourth or fifth gear,

I can’t stop—the brakes

disappear.

Desire and need confuse

themselves and each other,

and Berry’s dirty bass

under Duane’s clean, sliding guitar

tempos my hips, unfurls a rhythm

thumping and thrumming,

building and dropping down—

Dickey does it right, strums

those strings straight through me

Butch trucking drums,

the percussion of pleasure

dancing with keys tickled,

fondled, magically manhandled.

The blues get deeper, indigo

in I go, swimming into violets.

Feet on fire, arms akimbo,

serpentine sway of my body,

lips, tits, and hips

making love to the music,

taking it all, greedy for more,

a groveling, grooving

cumslut

feeling the power,

rolling through it to

ecstasy,

sound descending deeper,

dropping, until you think

it’s spent

instead rising like a rocket,

crescendo,

release:

freedom isn’t what you think.

The song that inspired this poem