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In The Time Of Slow Death
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When Do We Stop Pretending?
I told the D.J.
Stop using the headphone.
Just use your ears.
When the old song dies,bring up the new one.
You need both hands on the mixing board.
Nobody is listening and
Stupid play acting,
rehearsing for parts we'll never get.
Holding headphones doesn't impress
And words into a hot mike
only tell of drink specials and birthdays.
I don't talk to people I don't know anymore.
And I can't even pretend kindness toward strangers.
Except for hungry women.
I always leave them a single Rose
for a future that won't happen.
Now is not the time to be seen
I tell my face as the beard spreads
A shroud of hair,
the itches of violated skin,
pierced and pricked.
This is just a symbol of new life.
Meant to repel the stares of the hungry.
It somehow carries my new power,
a strange electricity,
If you licked me you could taste it.
An arrow moving through space.
People stop to watch it.
Power clings to me.
A torrent flowing through
where the old flow was...
sending vibrations into the air.
Admiring glances and words.
Strangers stop me on the street
asking for help.
There is a soundtrack to my life.
A woman singing
every word dripping
sliding into the next
while a pedal steel guitar whoops and sighs
behind the vocals.
I don't even know the lyrics...
or why a song has attached itself to me.
Some women hear the song,
Their bodies sway to it,
putting on a show or
dancing with unconscious need.
I know you live in a warm place,
I can smell it on you
like a lotion.
It smells like Sun and air and breezes.
And wafts around you.
Please take me...
Not right now.
I am now a master of the tender goodbye.
With practice, it has become a routine.
The movement of laugh lines
Take my face, I tell them.
Take it now.
Put it in a memory.
And we will come back.
This is our moment,
It belongs only to us.
Treasure this for now.
And we will come back.
A soft smile and an easy word
How they love you all the more
for leaving them.
Even the slightest touch lives
when there is warmth in it.
But I stay alone now.
I won't dance,sing or even talk.
Dead words carry the deep taste of bile.
A taste that can't be spit out.
I no longer can summon charm
and I can't remember stories.
fail to stir.
Pass me by.
The D.J. holds a earphone to his head
listening to a cued song.
I'm filled with disgust.
Another empty gesture,
a rehearsed movement on a stage.
We are losing our small audiences
in this time of slow death.
no one will even bother to look.