Wednesday, March 22, 2006


It's late, that magic hour when you can't erase the image from your mind and the bumps in the night just grind up against the static screen. I scream but no one hears and if they do it's always: "You didn't even try to hit the right note."

Slowly, I learn to operate my new remote control. Not as intuitively designed as the last one, or is it just that I got so used to knowing which buttons did what I desired? It's a sticky situation. I reap. I sow. I apologize for things I don't remember. There are no more stories to tell, only versions, perversions...

Why did I promise to meet my burdens half-way? Like father, like son, a boy needs his martyr and I, in my infinite patience, invite him in. So eager to please and release, I am not a billboard, magazine or even a can of peaches, though I can be sweet. Like I said, it's a sticky situation. My nature is more elusive, a mystery for the sages.

I tore the page, I broke the bread. I prayed and lied and wet the bed.
I stood on stage and bared my soul. I killed the king and choked on fools.

When a Diva dies, she burns her image in your mind. She hits the last note just right and then she says: "Goodnight." So I rinse and I repeat: "Goodnight, sweet prince," then cry myself to sleep.


Bored Dominatrix said...

OK, this is brilliant, and no matter what notes you were trying to hit, what you've produced sounds remarkably melodic indeed.

Dale said...

Very good piece, it's got it all. And by all I mean, I wish I had written that. Back to the shampoo directions. Curses!