Nothing could have prepared me for the night. Partner in crime and business turning up volume by the rolling of taxi windows. There you were on the table with an apple in your mouth... No, really, there was a fucking dead pig with an apple in it's mouth! Here we were in this industrial barn somewhere between reality and dreams. And then there were moments in time that were damn near nightmareish.
The projection of Bob on the wall was trying to tell me I was a big girl now. But, I wasn't having it. I wasn't ready to breathe the verity but I was inhaling alright. The dick book on the frenchies dresser was trying to remind me how you were.
James Dean was there playing with switch blades and doing his best Scarface impression. Betty page was there too she was throwing a fit because they wouldn't let her sing Bobby Mcgee. So I sang it instead... We were dancing children drinking red wine from the bottle while the flashing lights reminded us we were being studied. "You should do music" "You guys will do well" "Thank you may I have some more". And when the shit hit the fan the westerns playing on the wall told me to point and shoot.
So shoot I did though my weapon was my mouth and my ammo it was kisses and song. Three french boys one in evening. Edith Piaf was the lady of the hour she shook me. She consumed me and I sang and I wept. Applause was a true hit or so I had thought. But it didn't move him because he didn't care just as he never has and never will.
