Admission

You asked me for a song,
My googly-eyed little lamblet;
In the dying hours of a dying day,
You asked me for life, for music,
For some bright trifle to stay despair.

Could I be mother to all of that?
Fuckinay, Bo Peep,
To all of that and more.

I give you credit.
You didn't resort to the old roundhouse
And try to beat it out of me
As so many have before,
Pressing "sorry" to my bruises like a beefsteak
While promising never, ever, to do it again.

They were Catholics, my lovers,
All in an access of crossing themselves,
Particularly their fingers
Behind their suspendered backs--
And that was the women.

So, a tune you wish,
A tune you shall have.
Let me rosin my bow with the ground bones of Pharaohs.
This wood comes from Italy;
My remarkable fingers from my Gypsy aunts.
My skirts are Parisian,
And my smile that you love so well?
That came from seven devils, dead lo these seven years.

Sit.
You may use my lavender-colored fainting couch.
Recline, like a lime in gin.
Drape my burnt rose scarf over the Tiffany lamp.
Close your eyes.

You asked me for a song,
In the dying hours of a dying day;
For life, for music,
For some bright trifle to stay despair--
Let it be my love, for I do love you,
Despite my gloomy black gloves
And the way I flinch, like a tethered bird,
With every honest note I dare to play.
_______


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