[e11even]

...there's an itch in there...

its been bitchin at him--and mentioning his wishes is when it flares.
"The Witching Mare" was his bar of choice, mostly cuz of the strippers where,
Open mic was a plus, but a digit dropped is a bitch impaired.
Pretending to be obliv to barbiturates in the sinning air
Was enough to get him off... to the stage to serenade women fair.

...he scratches...

Each string played, a lustful chord knocking on a bosom's door,
The muse's moor explored, robust in his touch, filing the room with floors...
First flamenco this versed and gorgeous, impression was enormous.
Depressions ignored. Digression's reward: "Encore the performance!!!"
But in humbly declining, he was signing a silent pact
That by the next visit the listeners would be dying to try him back...

Guitar strums, drugs, excited hums... oh, the life it was,
but all the same to not know who's life it was...
Haze came over the nights of clubs, ladies with a delightful buzz...
Til once he was seduced, and she produced a substance that frightened some...
"you wanna try this with me?" she whispered, he nodded...
in mental he jotted... plotted; the instrumental to these gentle hypnotics...

He awoke. accompanied, but alone.
They'd enjoyed that night, floating aimlessly while they boned through the jones.
... now, here she lay in suspended animation. He prods... she's still as stone.
He heard cops... but who phoned? he's solitary at home...

FUCK!! Popped a cig to attone with the ominous tension,
voluminous sirens silenced the mind and its senses...
Why me? Why now? Is there a message in THIS shit?
Still phased, reminiscing on his visit with this spiritless vixen...

Ahh, but a supple hand, indeed, is a fagile one...
Which brought him back to the previous night she had him hung...

...scratching more...

"where do you see yourself... in say, three years?"
"I can't see it... I mean- I need this, but I have this fear..."
"You can tell me." she replied... giving him pause, mid-gear.
Just then, tearful thoughts of his father's unfilled shoes reappeared...
...of a man revered, filling ears with a soulful gospel reverbing off his veneer...
Concieving a lost thought only to be remembered by the evaded trails of arrears.

...he moved away... separating his thoughts with gesture...
She maneuvered closer as he resisted, assuming a lecture.
"Let me make you feel better..." kissing a tablet filled smile, he'd submit to the pressure,
As a noir-fathered nirvana followed, increasing ecstasy's measure...
... and now this. This dilemma. Death awaits the playful lost, it seems... but whatever...

Because that hollowing void of boyhood screams haunts his lifelong dreams...
...to be a dad... an accomplished musician... an idol with fans' eyes on screens.
Instead, he's comically reduced to highs at lows in high-end scenes...
Feet not fit for shoes beyond his current reality
because one's destiny's a such thing eyes don't see...

...scab peels back...

The entrance explodes ajar
with agents of the law bracing for war.
As a single force they storm in,
flooring covered with plank from where they broke the door in.

He stands, hands up... facing away,
"Don't you move!" Surrounding him, they inspect her as she lay.
"She's gone, Sir!" he heard one say.
"You're under arrest!!"... death or captivity- which'd be brought this day?

...puss spills over...

Window directly in front of him, he dives out, Let come what may...

SWAT wagon breaking his fall, he escapes shots fired,
Running for what seemed like forever...
yet adrenaline bleeding through wounds ensures he's not tired...

...alcohol on the sore...

The Mare called and he answered... bourbon shots to kill the cancers...
The stage disturbing his complacence... flamenco prepped like his favorite dancers.
He knew his renewed intention... there was purpose in his gaze.
Where there was lust, passion in its place- his old soul's assassin hit the stage...

Each string roared, a passionate pluck- emotions filled the venue,
The muse's moor a farm, harvested, the seeds renewed ...
First flamenco this emotionally displayed with no words,
impression profound, pronounced despite the shock and the horrid gore drip.
Depressions adored. Blood dressing the floor: "Please stop the performance!!!"
But in humbly declining, he was signing a silent pact
That by the next visitor the listeners would be declaring there's not a match...

Heart poored out... emotionally and physically drained,
Law enforcement met his exit, hungrily wishing that he'd engage.
He stared, sat, clenching the very instrument of his father's fame.
And smiled through their line of questioning as it came...

"Who are you?" The only inquiry heard, and so he answered.
"I'm the son of a mariachi musician who died of cancer.
He never cared for his son or the fact he was coming after,
to continue his music so he would love him in heaven's pasture"

...healing begins...

Not sure of a next move, the fed captain was confused a bit...
"You don't look like a killer, so why'd you run when we were moving in?"
He paused, drowsy... looked up, "I was chasing dreams and a wake up was due within."

Soothed and slowly losing grip, he smiled knowing the truth had been...
to never be of his father's size, 'cause he just found the shoes that fit.

Funeral held, musician was hailed as the newest addition, truest with self,
The Witching Mare renamed "The Old Guitarist", flamenco forever stood on their shelf.