What comes back, organs playing organs,
running the strings across your bones,
etching my story into your groin
into the places where you only let the dark ones in.
We are two duets and a bad opera away
from a cabaret on crack.
Bloody babies spilling me
out of carafes made of sinner’s skin.
This is my moment to shine,
on stage, in the spotlight.
White hot light, flames of the crematorium,
keep me going with that melody,
with those fingernails peeling off
on black and white keys.
You see me and I dance, I waltz.
Jitterbug on the platform for us to perform,
would it make a difference if this was just
a basement scene to amuse?
Would I be any less an actress?
A tango in your torn fabric costume.
I’m hoping for a curtain call,
for an encore,
for another reason to spill
me on the floorboards,
to kill me in your spare room,
to become art against the wood grain.
Another chance for vicious fame,
just don’t give me a name,