On Nostalgia T.V.
The Lady in the Dark Room is the most played
In a realm of high definition regrets.
Back in a better time,
I washed up on the pier
As a glass man carrying shattered thoughts
In grizzled palms.
All consumed by awe of
Those greenish-brown seas,
The Great Vessel tamed me.
It smiled beneath its rust-plagued white,
Laying me to rest with groaning lullabies
And a blanket of diesel fumes.
Then came the stage lights.
Through roaring applause,
They ripped through serene
Clawed their way to center scene.
Demons of song and dance
Prancing gracefully with blood stained ties
Crackling with dimension demolishing energy.
Slowly fingering my ears with the new gossip
From the Dark Prince and God himself.
Street scholars fed those monsters,
Starving artists feasting for the flesh of lime light.
Fitting, considering the dense heat of Hell
Raging from that kitchen.
Hustlers, thugs, and crooks hailing from the East and West
Preparing meals fit for kings.
Seasoned by Newport cigarettes
And great gobs of Ganja
To impossible to fathom.
The bass from the boom box broke up the quiet evenings
With our pearly “white” patrons.
Flash!
As I welcomed more nameless faces aboard,
I saw the end of the world.
Angels feeding on luxury!
Demons providing charity to the meek!
Brilliant colors numbing every sense of being!
Damning blindness illuminating to a path of goddom!
Flash.
I saw her for the first time.
Opulent flawlessness flowing ever gently over perfection.
(Hyperboles held at caution to not undershoot something so eclectic)
Truly beauty incarnate.
Her golden soul poured from the pores of her porcelain skin,
Gorgeous lips keeping hidden a smile not worthy of men,
Endless dark hair framing the greatness carved within.
And there were those eyes.
Those eyes that could turn the HARDEST heart to uncooked clay.
She was the Goddess, and I almost felt unworthy of her gaze.
“Couple weeks in and
It was back to the same shit:
College dickheads, waiting for a we,t hot center
Dismembered our diamond in the rough;
The ship moans as she crawls to the dock,
Hoping this flock of black sheep
Drunk-drive into a ditch.
Can’t say I blame her,
For what it’s worth.
Even her lullabies couldn’t give
More than two hours
And a cold shower.
And the galley staff keeps coughing up more body bags.
I’m the only one running trash!
Hold on….
There she goes again.
Fuck she’s beautiful.
Even the way she walks
Feels like she’s waltzing
To the beat of my heart.
It’s now or never.”
Ten Seconds.
Sweat.
Grime.
Anxiety.
Weak Smile.
Clenched Teeth.
Darting Eyes.
Still Unaware?
Quick Breaths.
Open Mouth.
Garbage!
A Yes?
Time.
“We visited Dionysus
And pompously pious
I was.
Elated by conversation,
Riding on the inflated high of my ego,
Drooling over her dress,
Musing over myself.
I had the etiquette of a rented mule
It was a contest of brutish
Phrases
And tracing roads
Among her memories.
A glorious photographer
With style and grace all her own,
She far surpassed any expectation
Or boundary.
I thought my crude mask would
Wither such a flower.
But she let me crash at her place.”
Indie records spun clean on the needle.
Awkwardly posed next to one another,
I felt a familiar seat on my palms.
I hoped she saw through my façade
As every short-lived locking of the eyes
Took hold of my thoughts.
The music melded with the smell of layered paint;
I was living solely for that taste.
Her lips defied my fantasies and gave birth to something new,
I held them close to mine in search of more truth.
Every sense muted crackled alive,
Electrified, a million volts caressing my spine.
Those woefully sung pieces and nonsensical rhymes
Came together this one time.
Too soon (I thought), she said good night,
Wide wake on that couch, I prepared for the great descent into love.
“Self-hatred is a helluva thing.
It will devour dreams
In an instant.
It takes no prisoners,
Tossing nonsinners
Into Hades
Without a second thought.
Because soon after
A kiss to remember,
I bought her a lavish gift
Too soon.
Far too soon.
Looking for any soul to
Tell me how evil I was,
I forced beauty out of my life
As a cancer.
I took up the hips of a belly dancer
To release my sorrows.
I knew full well that I was already dead.
Coming alive only to spread
Isolation to another.
Over, and over again.”
In between hellish life and glorious death,
I met the artist in limbo,
Craving the feeling of her palm in mine.
I revered and shied away from that simple touch,
As I prepared more gifts and more ceremonies
For my Goddess.
We warred.
We rejoiced.
Never truly accepting the other as is.
Eventually it was not enough.
“It was in early spring.
Cold, bitter, fleeting.
I sat in front of a grocery store,
Blood smeared on my jeans,
Cellular phone constantly ringing.
That blunt kitchen knife worked so hard.
Trembling uncontrollably, the smile on my face
Kept straight.
I was sawing towards salvation.
May it have been divine intervention
Or guilty conscience,
I still have no idea why I called the police.”
Off-white walls
Complimented his pallbearers well;
He died in that psych ward
Gut swollen from gorging
On pills and the gritty reality.
A filthy phone cord
Is the only remainder.
Stranger still,
He hasn’t called once.
Perhaps, stuck in limbo
Or truly where he belongs.
I will never forget his cries
As I eased through the double door.
“I deserved this!
I am a figment
Of no consequence.
I’ve left you with
Decadent misery,
A melancholy field
Far from this world.
But the Goddess exists!
Of mice and men,
Of the millions upon millions,
She is real!”
Now, deep within crevices of my patchwork mind
Lies the fucked up legacy we built and burned to ashes.
Ashes, still settling on unsalvageable foundations.
Loneliness just fusing another triviality to
This “machine” still drudging out life from the cosmos.
But, she remains.
A perfect woman, a goddess among carbon copies.
A muse worthy of greater literature.
