She makes me wanna die….*
She takes her time. Easy ~ she has it.
Easy ~ she is.
You can only wait. For her, to be back.
Your heart half stands in the green room.
Behind the velvet drapes, among the moon pollution, under the crumbling ceilings.
To cure you. For that, you call me.
As I touch you, you call her “girlfriend.”
She had to go. To town.
To that corner with no underground.
She needed a ticket. She needed a ride.
Russ took her.
I know Russ. You know him too.
Her absence fragments your words.
All. Our. World.
I cross the corridor.
To walk back. To my trashed dolls.
I sit in the darkest corner of the eternal room.
To not listen.
Then, I hear her car.
Her car, her girls and their ozonated convulsions.
To drag your virility out of its birthday of numbness. For this illusion, you gave her the power you took away from me.
I climb to the window. To look down.
At your teen whore queen.
Her wet head is looking around.
In my country yard, within my lost summers, inside the holy temple of my wax dreams.
She’s trying to park her ism of amusements.
Under my window, beneath the dwelling of my daughterness, down to the fortress of my innocence, along the sharpen alley of my wars.
But, there is already a big black Hummer, under this window.
Can’t you see?!
Your elfin whore’s insignificance cannot fit, in my pink and blue days.
Just let the red lights drive her back. To the dead hole the naive tricks of her cunt come from.
You try to learn the universe.
Can’t even converse in universe…..*
I close the window.
Then, I climb down. To lie and die on these veins of wood.
Their claws will catch me.
Screaming pieces of beaten and broken dolls. They’ll suffocate hopes and scratch rose petals out of my skinned sleep….
My ears slowly open toward a blurry dawn.
The eyes start burning into the words of this song.
I wonder what kind of creepy weirdo selected it for the early morning radio program.
Cherish the things she knows
Says if I change my stride, then I’ll fly….*
Myrtha’s laces are hanging from the wall in front of my bed.
Another day of rehearsal is calling for breakfast.
As I try to make it out of this silkless night, you come to paint of purple the orange shyness of this skyline’s rising sun.
Spring Street station.
The Balthazar Café. The crowded air.
Then, your hand sliding down on her back.
And the sacred dream cracking down in a million leaves.
That was the exhalation of my last breath. The last for you, Scott.
The pictures of the old country house are still on the night table.
I was in search of an end. To these notes of torture.
The telephone rings.
Giselle is waiting for me downstairs, in an already congested sunrise to the Lincoln Center.
I’m trying to hurry. I wonder if my Ray-Bans are still in her car.
Huh, I cannot forget it. The most essential stage accessory.
I run back to the bedroom.
Here, as Myrtha’s silver heart lays her crown of daisies, lilies and vengeance on this bleeding psyche of mine, her Wilis crawl down to my ears to state your end, Scott.
The tomorrow yesterday you made me hate is today.
And, from today ever, the only cure for your grayness will be but the purple loneliness the now clearer lines on your face created for you yesterday.
Story by Liliana Isella.
For the references to Myrtha, Giselle and the Wilis: