Bloodorange, the Big Boss,
assigned me to report on my own death, 
presenting a ticklish situation, both logistically and ethically. 

Cockrobin, my first journalism professor,
wrote "REPORT the story" on a blackjack and let me have it.
I saw stars indicating the edition with my byline on it, Chickpea, girl reporter.

Now, Bloodorange and I used to be a thing
until he undrowned his wife and family, up from the river, reborn.
I'm a loose end, an extra column, and the new ace of a dying profession.

Bloodorange is as crafty as he is cheap,
with two dicks that duel each other constantly, resulting in
his slightly gassy, somewhat bemused expression, commented on by all.

Concerned for my career, not to mention my mortal flesh,
I went to see Cockrobin, down under L Street where he lives in a funeral urn.
I kissed him by way of interview, and he bade me live just to spite his rival.

Like any good reporter, I wrote what I could long before deadline,
plumbing the morgue for basic bio stuff about myself, all news to me.
Then I composed several endings and demises, stored in a cloud like akashic records. 

Oh how Bloodorange and I used to dance, but now
one of his brats has killed me with a ball peen hammer, emerging from a high cupboard
to bash my brains in. How'd the little darling even get up there?

(Bloodorange hates vernacular, that's why I used it.)

The next afternoon, the newspaper folded,
journalism died, and Bloodorange became a Hindu,
reincarnated, single again, and using my skull for a doorstop at his ashram

Where the ideals are advertising revenue, and survival of the fittest.

for the weekend challenge at Toads: the news.


Anonymous said…
Hard to know where or how to begin to pour praise down upon this cannily crafted ode to the journalist.So much to admire here. The altered reality created is so believable.Wonderful piece of writing.
Anonymous said…
Shayszus FB, this is a burning room of forgotten newscopy. How did truth-telling become Fallstaffian gas? Nothing to save but plenty to discant and recant. Hope you link to the forum, 'tis essential. I sell stuff to weekly newspapers, have so for 20 years now, and they are not dying as fast as the big city boys, but the back of the Titanic is getting a rough ocean view. Dizzy and stellar work here.
Fireblossom said…
blueoran--sorry I forgot to complete the link. It is fixed now. :-)
hyperCRYPTICal said…
Brilliantly crafted and it is so believable.
Sad how the written press, in its effort to survive, regards advertising revenue as more important than truth telling. And all but the mighty will fall...and we will rely on the internet to provide us with 'the news' in its ghastly form of breaking news updates...
Anna :o]
hedgewitch said…
Chickpea, girl reporter. Indeed, how I always see you. The whole poem is akashic, and written on the bloodorange sky of everything sunset-folding like a newspaper left on a bus seat into an oblivion of apathetic cleaners who will suck it all up onto their facebook page along with the daily kittehs. Bruising writing, Shay.
Sherry Blue Sky said…
Fantastic. I especially like the reincarnated Hindu, using a skull for a doorstop. Nice touch. Smiles.
brudberg said…
Investigate reporter... if you go in to deep you get yourself Wallraffed... (at least here we still talk about dear Gunther)
Cloudia said…
Where is all this insight into journalism's sorry state from? You must hang with newspaper types. Amusing folk, like all outsiders. Remember when journalists were marginal types not from j school? Ah well. You snatched my attention and fancy and musing once again. . . Still a wonder, Shay
Gillena Cox said…
lol, this took me by storm. What a write

Much love...
Chickpea, girl reporter, and blood-orange turning Hindu. Just two fantastic images among many. Wonderful!
Susie Clevenger said…
It appears you didn't go silently in to that good..umm...morgued night. Your approach to everything is so unique. Always a treat to read your work!
How can you be so cynical when the press is democratized so much that every schmuck with a Twitter account and a half-assed opinion is a journalist? You're just an elitist, but I admit, with your talent, you've got a point. When will you learn that getting involved with men will be the death of you? La la la la la la la la la means I love you - mosk

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