blue girls

Keep Art Alive; Art by Audrey Kawasaki

Twins from Hell-A
(by me)

Used to be the two of us spent more of our time on the other side of the 101 freeway,
than we did tucked between bed sheets inside growing-up walls,
or behind the expectations of a text book stare.

A phone booth on Gower,
next to the best pizza on earth that we discovered smack in the middle of forsaken tourist’s sunset.
Train tunnel sunrise serenades,
and innocence lost in the back seat,
parallel parked on the far side of Willoughby (right there next to the pot hole to Wonderland).

Our pulse was quicker,
fed upside down and turned topsy,
From all those cocktail fed chemicals,
slid through and up under our collective skins.

Yet we always wore that tint of addiction,
with a “fuck you if you can’t understand” glow,
sidled up right next to a screamed “I dance circles around stick figure magazine girls”,
as the DJ played on.

Punk stained threads sewn well into donate at the door fabrics,
stolen shoes paired with ballet dancer tights,
and candy colored cigarettes,
we simmered and we burned bright.

We were a post-modern late-night Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
shoved up hard against an alley wall.
Nancy Spungen after a hot bath,
or Edie Sedgwick gifted with curves,
in the place of needle marks.

We saw the beauty ever after stuck in-between the lining of the pavement cracks,
beggars sat betwixt two sidewalk stars telling knock-knock jokes,
as we skipped between them with silver plated coins thrown up high in the air;
ever trying to spot the one we might take as our own.

When we go back there to peer out of water spot lenses,
nicked from an all-night gas station attendant,
he smirks when you ask him where he hails from,
peeking to see if he has a script tucked just behind the counter (we all do here).

Our lives are still pinned up just somewhere over the horizon,
we used to see ourselves as fallen angels with those count past thirty days before expirations kind of wings.
How will these stories play out to our (re)new out of focus perspective?
Does the circle survive?

Do we choose to hide the hell-a recollections,
polish up the reality and narrow the click-click camera here we go smile of denial?
Or, do we just lose ourselves in the boys who cling to the mic,
let them dirty up the images that we grab with held hands and jump right on through,
singing see you tonight, baby.

We will kiss lipstick imprints on the back of our ticket stubs,
drop them deep in the wish you were here well,
close your eye tight and jump,
the music will (always) catch us.

Cross-Bone Style :: Cat Power

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