Hendrix Stratocaster Syndrome (A Rock-Rap Lyrical Requiem) Poem by Frank James Ryan Jr...fjr

Headphones bleed
from the chords I believe
were struck by the master
the master of hands...
of ''Ladyland'', electric
a vinyl worth the weight
of three bricks of gold
for its' platinum sold, and-
I could never trade that thrill,
that marrow bristling chill
for a sack of dollar bills
on e-bay's net exchange
for I may be old and strange
but am not that far deranged,


And, ahhhh...the jagged mid-range tone,
sweet and smooth like sculpted stone,
before the days of cellular phones,
when Jimi blew my Fosgate cones-

in acoustical bliss
with a mind-chasing hiss,
like a Boa or Cobra
in peak tone and pitch.

And the demon of demons
with his tie-dye bandana,
toothpick, his stage manna,
'Sweet Decibel Demon'
twang-god for all seasons,
of titanium tweeter domes,
disturbed watts and ohms.



[But, wait just one minute
while i'm still on and with it
...can ohms really be disturbed....WATT the #@*k? ]!



Saw Hendrix and his Gypsy Band,
Woodstock, New York's farmland.
'Twas the late summertime,
of the year Sixty-Nine,
Max Yasgur played host,
his speech drew much toast
and, the ambiance, hell...
that's what rocked the most!


Jimi's mind-laced montage..
with snow white band;
Jimi's Fender massage...
with a skilled left hand;
and long black neck,
playing fast to his riff
til' he climaxed...
over young girls ogling,
and the wind crying Mary
at his beckoned call -
for a virile encore...,
'Electric Ladyland'....no doubt,
for the final close-out,

and, from beginning to end.....


P S Y C H E D E L E I D E! !


All this has now passed,
with a path left of dread,
and that day... Jimi's hour
when he saw the watch tower
too late, so its said
Hendrix was dead...
'cept for the echo,
that sweet twanging echo.
that strange stalking echo -
queer altering sensation,
improvised tittilation -
tintinnabulation...,

The psychadellic rush,
of feedbacks and thrust -
the thrill of the shrill,
still ringing my ears,
and after 35 years
I can now barely hear,
Was it worth it...i'll say,
tomorow...today;
You bet.... your best Purple Haze!



[And wasn't Dolby a friggin' marketing scam...Damn straight...]!

And, people, I swear
on a Stratacaster,
as black as the light
of those strobe-lit nights,
and my wildest plights-
that still follow me
relentlessly,
incessantly,
clamorously...

QUITE HAUNTINGLY!

That sound...............
................................,
that perpetual sound;
soprano high,
as a TV test pattern,
from nineteen-fifty-eight,
that ruled the boob-tube
of black 'n white nights
'til the morning prayer spared us.

BUT THIS? !

It never stops...
and never will,
nope...'not until
destiny says...LO!
It's time I go
to that plane afar
where all guitars
meet all sitars
all along the f'ing watch tower
with Morrison the Lizard in power


Jimi, yes, i know, my friend
....................................
we shall meet again, in ''The End'',
with Mojo...and Other Voices.






© 2015-All rights reserved
Frank Janms Ryan Jr / FjR