kind of a rewrite

Electric Light Orchestra

 

 

You lie on your back, singing,

don’t bring me down.

 

We’re both on the roof,

but only one of us falling –

it’s that kind of party. 

 

Pop tarts, cigarettes, grape soda —

a broken razor we use

to cut the bad out,

a pink lighter that almost works.

 

The scenery passes us

three times in black and white.

Your glasses wobble, rise like stoned butterflies.

 

I’ve tried various ways to forget:

flowers, drugs, electrocution.

 

The lawn after,

a mouthful of poison emeralds.

 

It’s been so long, everything smells

like the back of someone’s van;

even the dog ducks away, refusing to talk.

more girly ghosts

Q & A

Are you serious about this?

Here’s your suspense: the story ends with a puff of smoke.

The past approaches on tiny thread-legs, toddling across my plum-colored pillow, rolling in my perfumed hair.

How can I talk when you’re so far underground?

It’s been so long, everything smells like the back of someone’s van.

You once told me, you can’t keep comparing animals to other animals.

We were both on the roof, the sun coming up, but only one of us was jumping — it was that kind of party.

I’ve tried various ways to forget: flowers, drugs, electrocution.

Then, dawn didn’t break so much as swarm into view. Those green shards hid you for months, even the dog ducking away, refusing to sing.

Remember my purple hands?  Pop tarts and grape soda, a pink lighter that worked half the time.

What were you steering for?