I was around when someone shouted "Judas"
to Dylan for going electric.
I was the ink in Paul Simons North of England sound of silence.
I was the muse for David's  "Space Oddity"  all those pink  moons ago.

The space cadet needs a new face
It has to have fun
It needs to learn how to manipulate darkness
The new space cadet needs to spew evil out of its guitar and encourage the crowd to stomp it to death
The battle between good and evil was a thing of the 60s. The flower children say they 'fizzled out' but the truth is they lost.
Now its all covert.
Now we're spies
Undercover
The flower children's death gave birth to new factions
Star children, spider kids, the punks, etc.
I aspire to create a new faction because I see a lot of people around me who seem lost just like me but every band needs a frontman
Every faction needs someone on the front lines.
Someone so fed up that they snapped at the system. When you do that you need to be careful so you don't snap yourself. Your self confidence and your confidence in your cause must be unbreakable. You must confront the red seas unshaken and bare the brunt of the first blow. I'm not sure what I'm talking about yet but when I do you'll know it.
I suppose my sign will be the buck
All these factions work for the same organization. We are in your books. We're in your music. We're on your television. We're in your breakfast cereal.
God is dead and the devil lives in heaven. Forever working to dillute us.
We live in its illusion.
Jack is in the box.
The black iron prison.
I am recruiting.
I'm in trouble.
I need help.

Red and white dotted fabric.
I spin around in my chic new dress.
My husband kisses me goodbye.
I iron out the clothes.

Stitch.
Sew.
Cut.
Pull.

Warm, homecooked meals.
We dine as a tune from our youth plays on the radio.
He places a rose on my empty plate.
I smile.

Thimbles coat my fingers.
I stick pins in fabric and sew it up together.
I feel a thud in my stomach.
I iron out the clothes.

He welcomes me home with gifts.
My baby boy is fast asleep.
My husband is slowly coming home later and later.
He hasn't noticed the holes in my arm.

I drink another shot, smiling at my sleepy baby boy.
My husband isn't home.
I pop my pills.
And I iron out the clothes.

The medicine isn't working anymore.
I can't stop his screaming.
Shut up.
Shut that child up.

My husband is yelling at me.
What did I do wrong?
He tears my new dress.
I iron out the clothes.

My baby won't stop crying.
Stop, please.
My husband is never home.
My head hurts.

I throw the pills down the drain.
I shakily brandish a knife.
I breathe.
And iron out the clothes.

Crimson splattered across walls.
An old tune from our youth plays on the radio.
My husband isn't breathing.
My baby boy stopped crying.

I feed my child and put him to sleep.
I sleep.
I spin around in my green and white polka dotted dress.
The fabric tearing at the seams.

I iron out the clothes.
The fabric.
The rope.

I leave a rose next to my child and stand up.
This necklace fits perfectly.
I take a bow in front of the mirror.
Don't I look pretty?

I kick the furniture.
Dancing midair.
My hair falls to my face.
I iron out the

Remember when you told me you forgot your middle name.
And that you didn't remember if you even had one.
That your parents weren't particularly religious; that they forgot God.
And that you've been forgetful lately.
You couldn't
remember
the last time you picked flowers.
Or a president.
Or shot a gun.
Or put a flower in a gun.
And that Vietnam was like Iraq.
And France would bring WWIII.
"What's my middle name?"
You asked.
"Where's the Middle East?"

"Didn't the nukes dropped in the Nevada desert sand create glass?"

"How many windows does this room have? Can you see?"

"The eyes are the windows to the soul."

My eyes feel old
Is what my grandmother would say
when she was tired.
She would play solitaire.
After each game she would
shuffle the deck three ways.
I would always mix them up
scattered on the tabletop.
That's what I remember
from the sixties.

Marionette
She'll declare you lovely
And she'll clasp your hand and run you down the street
To the little coffee shop no one really sees
You will have coffee over a little chat
About how much she hates coffee
And she'll talk too much, and then none at all
She'll giggle and brush her 60s pin curls behind her ear
And her glistening eyes will watch you fall in love with her
And she'll have no idea

I know of a girl who dreads the New Year
Because it steals her away
from poodle-skirts and telephones
And all that is long gone
Drags her across the floor by her ankles
while she sobs
as though she'd known the era's
dead.