The Broken Angel of Slow *** Flight and Her Impossible Audience
The broken angel of slow *** flight Walked up to the store with rock and roll in her heels In front of drunk men She belted out a few lines of a seventies classic Her singing wild and ***** as her body A crazy street person they would say As she caringly petted the store owner’s dog Looks of mild contempt were her thanks And yet her love flowed Some foreign heart untouched by ordinary ignorance She stayed awhile and tried to make friends Mostly ignored, except for the occasional glance one has towards a circus show Performing and yet not performing She lifted up her shirt for some reason to reveal her stomach She had the free sexuality of a playful stripper And then she spun out again in another direction After awhile she left With a genuine smile for everybody
The reason for her visit was unclear But she was tagged a *** And there was some relief that she was gone How can a person’s apparent vocation cloud the stars they explode for you? A slow firework blew by the store and is seen like the dirt under our shoes Whereas we wear our boredom like a crown And hold others to the same so-called normal criteria We call her a *** But envy the rebel ruby of her freedom