Person is Not a Rude Word

courtesy thegrowingarts.com at google images

1970 saw the start of my non-air-guitar performances.  I preferred the tangible hockey stick Hendrix.  Here’s my acrostic (not lacrosse stick) proem to the legend:

JAMES MARSHALL HENDRIX
 
Jimi.  The legend.
Angel of Woodstock.
My little wing’d hero.
Eulogising the voice, the face.
Still he lives on in
Music out of time:
Army boy’s blues,
Riffs on his guitar,
Sending me blind.
(Hyde Park, Isle of Wight.
And I? Born too late…)
Lost in this voodoo chile’s
Laudable guitar wails
He plays with his teeth.
Experience his band of gypsies:
Narcissists, barbiturates & babes…
Drifted away in his electric ladyland.
Raise hell in heaven unholy Hendrix.
Infidels & initiates celebrate thy legacy.
eXit genius.  Stage lefthand.

©  Luc(e) Raesmith

As for this bunch, they didn’t inspire me to ought but this culinary parody… (more trans*pired than inspired)

Sassy Spice

My sister’s a true spice girl.
The first thing she showed off
in her new home
were those thirtysomething jars
with the oh-so-neat labels.
There tiered shelving in the cabinet
awaited her precious cache.

Baby spice pots mounting the base
for ginger and other warm sweet exotics,
rising to the sporty set:
fenugreek, mustard and coriander.
Seeds lead to scary chilli,
turmeric and cumin, with room
for posh saffron on top.

She’s a cordon vert lover in the kitchen.
She’d make a nice bomb on the box
if she chose to do a Delia;
exploiting the masses’ desires
for meatless dishes and
‘desettling’ those chief male chefs
with her cruelty-free tarts.

But my sister’s not one for flashing
her all in public.  At home
with her chopping board,
mouth a-pout, gaze fixed;
she raises two fingers in a V,
licks the butter smeared between,
and her dressing gown slips apart
to reveal cleavage and navel as she poses
the question to her espoused, shouting proud
“Do you want paprika on your ciabatta pizza?”

And as mozerella melts and spices sizzle
with the heat of her passion,
her gas hob-top oven, she hugs
herself with the thought:
“I’ve got me here some real hot grill power.”

©  Luc(e) Raesmith