Pictish girl

 
(Listen, this next song has a criminal past: she started
life as a poem, but she ran away, looking for something
more glorious. she never found it…)

every poem secretes a spirit, a spectral essence of the poem’s
creator. most spirits are content to languish in the wisdom &
passion of their unique poem, but  she was restless. her poem
was tranquil, sedate in its gentle philosophy. she needed more,
being under the siege of the insinuation of her similes,
her metaphorical desires.

one day she rose & ran away, to pursue her adventure.
a poem, of course, cannot survive without its spirit;
it withered & crumbled to dust.

she travelled thru many lands, learning the harshness of survival.
she became skilled at stealing food from the shops. she huddled
in vacant doorways at night, for rest. sometimes a stranger would
take her to his room. in exchange for a bed, she discovered a
basic sordidness that she had never imagined.

one night she came to an auditorium. the industry of the music was
overwhelming; it made the walls vibrate. reverbs pierced her flesh,
igniting her insides.

out of the crowd, she saw a dark, unshaven man. he had thick black
hair, savagely untamed, with eyes to match. he was watching her,
perceiving a blooming flower, still somewhat fresh. they danced a
punishing dance, a modern conception of the Apache’, under the
iron sound of Slipknot, Rammstein, Black Sabbath.

she quickly, quickly became his slave & his mistress. she rode the
back of his Harley, clinging to his leather majesty. he had her tattooed,
ancient & chaotic symbols that transformed her into a heathen. she
was catatonic in the haze of bitter beer, drugs, & their sex: vindictive &
loveless. she was an illusion, she was the ghost of poetry.
and she loved him.

and then he was gone…he was a gypsy, & gypsies always run away.
she was left in rags & filth. her beauty perished in the ashes of her
dreams. in her despondency, her only memory was of the safe place
she abandoned long ago –

       her home, her poem.

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