[..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
