Rock Star Confessions and the Children of Guilt
We are all rock stars Lounge room celebrities Couch-tomb corpses Caught in anemones at the bottom of the bath tub Laugh, hug, snorkel until the water goes cold. After that we can worry about the blood and the circling sharks closing in our stubbed toes. Itching our backs on flowery coral stones. The scratches match the pattern tile home, Cracks begin to show in the smiles That have grown over our mouths sewn shut by boredom. The lack of words hang in a slack noose of work-tie tempers, Loosened to release our frustrations in sweat and rashes. About our wet matchstick āsuccessesā.
The sparkless darknesses hissing a last breath from the cardigan carcasses.
Wordless whispers - our 1st form of confession, In the heavy breath of nerd-kissed sisters learning wrong lessons, Or right lessons from wrong teachers. Until all thatās left are the songs that speaks to us, From dead stars with lipstick signatures And collectable sicknesses.
The walls of our classroom are splattered with spray paint and vomit. Chalkboards scratched with stylus on vinyl. Where history lectures send tingles up your spine Because they all relate to you and where you came from. Not all flames and bombs and the names of capital cities. This battle is fought by foot soldiers in street sneakers, With the folders and books sold to us shook Until the pages shake free from their stapled creases.
Weāre slow readers, but skim listeners and speed speakers. So teach us, you rock stars, who were there, who we share a song with. Who we give an ear to and a fist for, Knocking on classroom doors, āLET US IN! WE WANT TO LEARN!ā
Our 2nd form of confession was born of a congested throat, Guilt-locked and ridden, Phlegm clogged and smelling rotten, Yelled sore at gutter dogs and next doorās visitors. With god as our misery. We shout our prayers angrily Until the neighbours complain. Weighed down with artillery. The breakfast table over-turned To serve as a shield against riot police. The pious deceased. The violent wear crowns. Crying huskily, we bleed tears from our wrists. Our Care Bears are gutted and stuffed With plastic bags of narcotics To snuggle scarred toddlers Who fall asleep to shotgun lullabyes And the screams of the priests as they prey. And we are all priests, at least by day. And the dreams of the weak in bullet-proof vests. And we are all dreamers pulling up blankets, Thanking the bullies and thanking the violent kings, until the sirens grow wings, Carrying our aching bodies so heavy with sleep, Above and away in a trail of blood. The more we bleed, the lighter we weigh.
Our 3rd form of confession Spoke of revolution Through a megaphone pressed To the window of the bus we drove to the steps of the homes Of the men we once crowned out of fear. Knock, knock. We are here! Knock, knock, We come knocking with bodies from coffins, A frontline of cart-wheeling archers and kingsmen, All singing a war cry All crying about the war for which we sing. Ringing your door bell, Yelling your windows in. Bruised and swelling our barefeet batter a timber song Never to soften on the hardwood of your front door. Above our heads For love of the dead Our summersault pilots fly on wings of five fingers Knee-tucked and clearing your sharp metal stakes, electric wires on gates, protective sirens and dogs on a chain.
Weāre in. Itās raining down chimneys, Bath tubs are over-flowing TVās capsize as emergency raftsā¦ Our bosses canāt swim. The foremen board themselves up in their offices, While Warehouse Cowboys race forklifts Down the store isles. A riot on wheels wireless people sighing with relief in the radio hiss of our rock star confessions, All guitar-blaze distorted, Until weāre all corpses In lounge rooms, now spilling out through the window into the garden, Flowers sprouting from our wounds Blooming out through the holes in our padded vests and overalls, As we scrawl an essay in lipstick of our own. Branding our epitaphs with lit cigarettes into the back of our hands. Weāre blister-lipped singers, Howling smoke-rings, Crowned in burnt halos Wailing on wings with the dead stars, All kingless. Bending the bars from our beds, Scouring our lungs with Mortein breath Coughing up nest of flies from our belly. Purging ourselves through confession.
Etched in these bodies are actions - now told. Now soldiers, hold fast and hold strong for our historyās a song if youāll listen. Our lives are stories of men without wings Who cast off their crowns before they dragged them to drown. Sitting bare headed, Here imbedded in our ears are the headphones Holding a reverse charge call from gods on microphones To all the dead in their homes. Our last verse given breath, We just listen and listen until all that is left is a dial tone.
B. Moon Child 2007
