Well..

[..I said to Barbara, I said]

I’m writing my book, making my costumes and playing me

I think I am rather good

remembering all those lines that could

have once made a difference

when sunsets felt real,

 beyond their damaged magnetic fields

I sang, I danced, I concurred

and when my sword bent from my knees

 and I couldn’t cry anymore

I walked on burning coal through the icy rain

to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces

and anchored by fear I deliver

touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking

live entertainment

half brave, half pushed

sometimes merely there

I remember the lights,

blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep

and their smiles, joy and clapping

are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon

we lick ice-cream together,

 get colds together

make sticker-charts together and

sit on the naughty step together

and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again

shh!

keep reading

turn the page to the scene

 with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage

and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick

and her depressed chiwawa

and keep playing me

 Sunday to Sunday