"Where is my mind?"--The Pixies
Once there was a man.
Let's call him "Chauncey Bloodmouth."
Chauncey Bloodmouth had a wife,
Chauncey thought he'd have for life.
'Til one day she engaged in sin,
One that Th'Book of Books is in.
She took a man outside the bond,
The one of which ol' Chaunce was fond.
Her plan to him she soon made plain,
"I'm leaving you, and fuck your pain!"
Bloodmouth took a bloody whim:
"Find the fucker; bloody him!"
The so-called fucker cringed and hid,
Seeing Bloodmouth flip his lid.
Mrs. Bloodmouth called The Law
('Twas the last of her he saw).
So callous Mrs. Bloodmouth was
To see sad Chaunce and call the fuzz.
Chauncey stood in a drizzling rain,
Thought,"How is it she feels no pain?"
Bloodmouth felt a pang himself,
So Bloodmouth tried to hang himself.
But just as they aided her contempt,
The cops interfered in th'attempt.
Chauncey had "to go away,"
The cops told him, "But for a day."
But one day soon enlarged to four
And Bloodmouth's sorrow plagued him more.
In the ward he would not eat
(He'd already a surfeit of defeat).
They gave him pills of sundry kinds
To numb emotions, chasten minds.
He's on these pills some two months later
And still he thinks his wife a traitor.
Pills alone can't change the facts,
As air alone can't blunt an axe.
He thinks, "Oh, were I two months dead,
"Out of this skin, out of this head.
"But there are those who want me 'round:
"'We love ol' Bloodmouth; he's profound.
"'He thinks big thoughts and loves big words,
"'Speaks of Manfred and the herds.'"
But for all his love of Keats and Byron,
Bloodmouth keeps a coin for Charon.
For should it ever come to pass,
That he can't stop feeling a total ass,
He'll once again put on the noose,
'Cause from this life, he would be loose.
The cops, the pills, the puling herds
That seek the beauty of his words,
Will never, never countermand;
Bloodmouth's going to take a stand:
"As is my life, so is my death,
"As is my pulse, so is my breath.
"They are mine; they're within me,
"So herd and fuzz, please let me be.
"O'er a life like mine, no greater boss
"Than the overwhelming sense of loss
"I feel with each and every day:
"Myself to spare, myself to slay!"
Thus if you learn that Bloodmouth's dead,
His blood'll be on his ex-wife's head.
For Bloodmouth was a lover true;
The loss he could no longer rue.
And so he met a lover's fate.
Pray not for Bloodmouth; it's too late.
1 comment:
only incidental
never noticed you had a scar there was the last thing she said to me and ran her manicured finger across the white puckered skin of my elbow which rested casually next to the tumbler of iced pepsi sweating beads of clear water in a ring at the base on the cool glass garden table occasionally scars seem more pronounced the half inch diameter bolt sticking out from the side of the seesaw on the playground at the park ridges of screw still sharp and unworn and heated to inferno like an inquisition tool by august sun is remembered vividly some days more than others in the now healed skin usually dense cast iron and anticlimactic intermittently like soft soled shoes on newly paved streets customarily dormant and ignored cautionary statements of what to avoid the sharp words that shredded my skin frail as old linen like cat claws razor and dirty left lines of scar and a phantom interminable itch recollection flares up now and then in the once damaged tissue perhaps anniversaries remind it of injury or climate or maybe its dietary or possibly beneath the patched and stitched and buckled skin lives the intense remembrance like a cockroach crawling about creeping on quiet feet through an old tenement building the recall survives hidden in drains and cellars and other dark cubbies dining on the trash of existence until someone turns on a light and quickly it scampers for cover only occasionally seen but often enough that i want to call an exterminator and distance myself from my body in order to bear the memory of the initial pain of the wound the shock of damage i stoically say hell it didn't hurt and proudly tell the tale of my bravery on the night that tore into my flesh like a dark dagger honed by satellites and cold starlight the discomfort of want the cicatrix left by you when you walked away down the path without a gesture or a word taking with you your pheromones the sway of your hips and your eyes which would not meet mine that avoided contact i can not now even after the cut has healed look into them they spill brightness onto me but do not tell me what i need to hear
why do you need her to invite you to return to your flesh again?
that noose is not for you. time will show you this.
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