I
motel
room black
pierced
with
neon
flash
illuminates
her face
flicker
news show television b&w
back
to the wall
watching
the figures
etched
in plaster
they
look at her then she hides
she
tries to get
to
the
balcony
and
see what’s through the glass
the
tiny men
dancing
slowly to the
beat
of a backwards
bossa
nova
she
looks at her hands
a
slow smile as it
creeps
slowly
towards
her
left
side
right
side
she
hummed francoise hardy
slightly
warmed comfort
ii
it
tells her what she did wrong
sits
on her shoulder
whispers
in her ear
words
drilling in
corseted
mental things
pale
face smile contortion
nervously
she pulls
her
long fingers
through
her oily
black
hair
-
tous les garcons et les
filles
tv
faces frozen
“that’s
what it’s all about –
a
stunning voice –
a
gorgeous face –
a
delectable ass”
“why
don’t you like me – I don’t know”
dancing
while destroying
the
tv channels
motel
at the end of a highway
magnificent
in its decay
the
windows - black and blue
leather
dreams
the
cars don’t stop
anymore
“they
drive away”
she
learned what
she
knows
from
the videos
hallway
reeks.
fluorescent
bulbs.
mosquitoes
talk
silently
behind the walls.
a
filthy moist buzzz
between
time saved.
we
tentatively walk
clutching
hands.
she
steadies herself by
touching
the
cracked
plaster.
iii
a
silence
an
enemy
a
vixen
room
217
the
smell and the tv
is
old
the
cable functions
all
is well
knives
sharpened we switch channels
sitting
on the stained chairs
her
- left side
me-
right side
nothing
to do
no
words
just
watch
pencil
points broken
paper
on fire
the
sun’s rays
stop
at the window
never
enter
never
sing
after
awhile
she
motions to the screen
gets
up
and
quietly
kicks
the images
then
sits back down
1 – 11 – 111
ReplyDeleteClearly a connection, continuation in these three ‘verses’…the mention of françoise hardy is so important to how I have perceived the string of these pieces. The black & white images that come to my mind from your words, the motel, the TV “flicker”ing – a dreary place but a necessary one. She, larger than the life below but calmed by the reality of where she is, who she is…..not larger than life but part of it. The subtle mention of Hardy as a song that ”she” humms and I am feeling they’re simpatico.
In II it is she and her duality…..wondering about your feeling for the muscian Hardy and I am thinking that you connect to her sensibility as a person rather than artist the who “really”, not the created image ….and perhaps this piece in it’s entirety is a look at the bigger question of who we really are and the underneath that has molded us and remains something of a sordid comfort…..I’m rambling now….. back to the halo and horns that we carry with us and that voice they “drill(ing) in corseted mental things…”. You seem to be exploring the superficial and sensationalized jux to posed the “moist buzz” ‘behind the walls, the dark and real places we all have and those places that have saved us in some way, kept us real.
I love the closing verse….a finalé. The place, the woman (person), memory and reality, that is kept hidden but exists.
I love this piece. I may be way off in my perception – but it gives me a sense for the importance of all of who we (I) are (am) and how we (I) have become…the need to recognize and acknowledge and be ok with the compartments we have made.