Excuse me for not knowing what to do with you and all your exhausting beauty.
Standing in the rubble, I’m saved from the trouble of making amends with you again.
Hands I won’t be holding, strings I won’t be pulling, all the patience I don’t have.
Brushing out your hair, picking what to wear, smoking in your underwear,
Ashing in the sheets, singing in my shower, oh thoughts now in this dying hour:
Think of all the tables you won’t be turning, hearts you won’t be warming
with your youth and wit, such a shame to be undone under afternoon sun.
You poured coffee, remembered names, just to go down now in untimely flames.
People will ask after you, and gasp, what a shame, such a shame, shame, shame.
I’m smoking and wading through the ashes, nothing will ever be the same.
Rhinestones and wreckage, ordinary people, fire fighters and passer-bys.
Not one beauty managed to survive, hairspray lit and burned them alive
I guess you’re free not to think of me, waltzing endlessly in gown and crown.
Disaster in the headlines, and no one cares who would have won.
And I wonder if the other indifference-struck men are out to seek pardon.
On any other Sunday promenade, I’d be less reticent, less sedate.
I’d be smoothing and soothing, apologies I’d have to make for being late.
I’ll call this our last date, I’ll keep your old sash, and put the rest in the trash.
You little bombshell, I won’t forget the beauty pageant gone wrong.
Messy sheets, dirty streets, it’s a world to which you don’t belong.
- Tricia McSweeney
released December 1, 2009
Brett: beats, samples, words & instruments