A Song For Ellie Greenwich

A Song For Ellie Greenwich

Pressed unto us, flesh still sickly sweet with scents of love. But lost of this lust, exactly what becomes of us? Just like me, they long to see you on your knees. But all these hes–into–shes irreparably slow these hopes we’ve sewn. And so we forgo what pleasantries we’ve grown to know.

Hand in glove, for lack of the words we called this love; but now they’ve cynical slurs to define what is was that we have done.

The tone that she chose shows mother knows what’s become of us. And if I start to show, well heaven knows, we’ll soon be sussed. False alarms–might I have meant to do you harm? For somehow, I’ve found much to distrust in what once ushered us through months of hurried hush.


What desperate depths you’ve drug me to… still—blood to bruise—I’d run to you. So it’s the least that I could do to remember you the way that you would want me to. Those days before these pores improved when, sore to swoon, I swore to you. Then ankles bound with trousers round, I’d lay the way you taught me to. Loose slacks ascend toward half–mast, those photographs outlast what’s come to pass.

I have in my mind the face: upright, the skin was taught… but horizontal, an excess came from somewhere to droop down—clouding sockets, flushing hollows—pulling the mouth into a drooping, head-heavy heart. It was in this position of the skin that it looked sadden, yet entirely moved by feeling sad. This is where I knew we met: The Kicking Dead.

Those hips of rose through balls of blue—it’s all that I’ll recall of you. Those faithful few who never knew? Well, what they don’t know won’t hurt you. One sinful slip which slew us two—from scorn to screw I mourn for you who’d flatter me your fleur de lis. Who’s elegies still seep from me. And pleased to fondly think of thee on berber-burnt and bended knees. So rest—however restlessly—with peace beneath these cherry trees…

This Regrettable End (Untangled)

Might the strings swell again? Sound, then sadly descend? For to lend due respect this regrettable end? For I’ve slept with the best, as I’ve wept with the rest—ever–blessed with this sense some swift end might be met. Could those strings swell again, lest mine eyes well instead? For to lend bated breath, less this life that I’ve left?

Yet our song soldiers on, where each chord corresponds whom to all I’ve done wrong. Chest drawn of breath, throat red as fresh-stretched post–fuck flesh we’d both sooner forget. And yet strange successions remind: flush with desperate decline—certain prides thus obliged—I’ve resigned to this life. Rife with primes past behind, strains of wrasp-wearied rhyme, and no time to surmise all my wherefores and whys. Though I suppose–should it help to know—I’m oh so glad to go, what with woe–soaked underclothes.

And were that this the final phrase cast from these lovely lips, I pray, remember this: what once was wed with one’s past—though now no strings attached—for the lust (or its lack) just can’t help coming back. Well past reprieve we’ve reached; each creased of ceaseless griefs we’ve seen, save this one brief relief.