Closing time at Literary Mary bar.

Here I am sweeping the floor after everyone has left.
The boss never did give me a chance to sing.
He said I could. He said I'd have a big night
dedicated to my voice, if I was good enough.

Now I just walk this mop like a woman I'd love.
A woman I'd dance with, cup her thin waist,
lock onto her eyes. And I'd sing into her ear
like all sentimental lovers do.

I'd show her my voice. I'd sway crowds with it.
People would hear the truth of my voice.
But now that opportunity is gone, wasted, lost.

My voice will be known only by a few close friends.
I will sing on hot nights from a bottle of red wine.
They will sing along in those drunk moments.

And here I must sing to myself,
sweep my fortune away with the rubbish:

'Tomorrow.
Tomorrow never comes
What kind of a fool
Do they take me for?

Tomorrow
A resting place for bums
A trap set in the slums
But I know the score

I won't take no for an answer
I was born to be a dancer now, Yeah!'




*Song lyrics taken from Bugsy Malone musical. Song is 'tomorrow' sang by character 'Fizzy'.

Shot to pieces.

Saturn devouring her son - Goya.

{I}
Slow breeze and idle peace in the town ammo store;
tenuous friendship between a hand gun and rifle
living together on the same shelf for too long.
Immaculate glass cabinet shines in sun light.
A gun smirks and glints beneath its glare.
The shop owner takes stock of his weaponry.

{II}
Elderly couple in the parking lot argue
over the necessity of firearms for safety.
'A society without guns disarms
a population against possible takeover
by the military. We got freedom with the gun,
Betty.' 'Then we'll never be free without the gun,
George. If people need to protect themselves
from other people, by killing each other,
their is blindly something wrong with people.'
'War is the art of protection. We need a gun
in case the worst happens, Betty.'
'What if the worst never ends, George?'


{III}
A chandelier in the White House hall hangs
like a constellation and the chandeliers
of the palaces of the world hang and
the chandeliers and the chandeliers.
While all around the world in arms:
The right arm sells the war,
the left tends to the wounded.

Distrust and chandeliers.
Six billion bullets have never kissed.
They lie in bed having never held each other.
And the bodies pile and the bodies pile
like fallen logs. Entire schools
hosed down in broad day light
and the world is doomed and sealed in a bang.