The Tale of The Queen of Hearts
London Town
And I knew that she came to save you, but she knocked my drink over two. And I knew, I knew of her small curves and breasts brushing against your skin. I knew of her soft words whispered to your ear and her sweet laugh that could hardly harm a fly. But I was a fly, remember? Remember how I used to say “I am a fly I’ll die tomorrow, so give me all you’ve got” Well I was a fly, and her love for you was so pure and so sweet, so virginal and puritan.
And I know there were angels in her angles. I know there was a low moon caught in her white blonde tangles, shinning amongst the curls of an un-brushed hair, and a beauty lacking of everything but purity. Like a little saint coming to save us from our shambolic existence in the road, coming to free us from our parasitical need for the other. A kid and a saint entering our lives, slowly melting the barriers of our tolerance for the common, a saint that knew how to lie.
Mary the virgin with her chaste adoration for the minute moles upon your face; Mary the kid who cried whenever I grabbed a Ginsberg book and recited “Howl” with all the connotations it had, with all the suffered screams into the night; Mary that who laid in her bedroom floor with us flying around her like sick ravens with bad prophecies, Oh Mary who lied straight into my face, and I’d say “Please don’t lie, oh it makes cry in bed” ; Merry Mary, with her bleak smile and confused expression, trying to find truth in all of my lies.
But there was no need to play with my heart. There was no need to erase the mere verses of London Town, there was no reason for her to haunt you down, and how did her sweet/cruel game wrapped your warm skin? How could she place her fair lips to your ear? How could she lay entwined with me? Oh how I loved those moments! The ones when her cold pupils were hid from the world, in her eyelids so calmly drawn together, the moments when her feeble body knew no distance from mine. But how I learned to despise your very grin when it was directed to her, in envy from your sight and her own; Mary was Mary for me only when frail and trembling in my arms, but you? You were a piece of my skin, a disease installed by my lungs, a contagious touch of chaos inside me; you were the aorta pumping its lethal poison through my heart, and you knew it.
But if you thought I was lying, why would I’ve given up trying so soon?
And I know there were angels in her angles. I know there was a low moon caught in her white blonde tangles, shinning amongst the curls of an un-brushed hair, and a beauty lacking of everything but purity. Like a little saint coming to save us from our shambolic existence in the road, coming to free us from our parasitical need for the other. A kid and a saint entering our lives, slowly melting the barriers of our tolerance for the common, a saint that knew how to lie.
Mary the virgin with her chaste adoration for the minute moles upon your face; Mary the kid who cried whenever I grabbed a Ginsberg book and recited “Howl” with all the connotations it had, with all the suffered screams into the night; Mary that who laid in her bedroom floor with us flying around her like sick ravens with bad prophecies, Oh Mary who lied straight into my face, and I’d say “Please don’t lie, oh it makes cry in bed” ; Merry Mary, with her bleak smile and confused expression, trying to find truth in all of my lies.
But there was no need to play with my heart. There was no need to erase the mere verses of London Town, there was no reason for her to haunt you down, and how did her sweet/cruel game wrapped your warm skin? How could she place her fair lips to your ear? How could she lay entwined with me? Oh how I loved those moments! The ones when her cold pupils were hid from the world, in her eyelids so calmly drawn together, the moments when her feeble body knew no distance from mine. But how I learned to despise your very grin when it was directed to her, in envy from your sight and her own; Mary was Mary for me only when frail and trembling in my arms, but you? You were a piece of my skin, a disease installed by my lungs, a contagious touch of chaos inside me; you were the aorta pumping its lethal poison through my heart, and you knew it.
But if you thought I was lying, why would I’ve given up trying so soon?