The sky bleeds in the name of rage. Crimson reminders of violence every night at 5 o’clock. I don’t know how light works but if I did I would say it is reflecting back to us everything we need see about ourselves. Pop stars are like seraphim sent to divinate for the masses. An evil angel whispered in my ear and it told me to like Taylor Swift. It’s quite pleasant a way to live. The air is still warm, though it won’t be forever; it never is no matter how hard I pray. From the side of the highway I try to capture all the stars who evade me. Sometimes it feels as though I can’t even count to ten.
I could go deaf from the silence of a year without music and it would still be better than having to hear the Earth’s heart breaking over and over again. Venus predicted such an outcome, yet I still didn’t prepare for judgment. One could have all the world’s lovers; those lovers end with the world.
Always in your area: announcing themselves, they arrive from the heavens in a mysterious haze of fog and moon glow. Alien soldiers sent from the echelon to usher us through, communicating only in a series of micro-expressions of femininity across an ever-changing landscape of theatrics. The rhythms of their vessels intersect in swift ribbons of movement, dissolve in delicate syncopation, and again. They hold each other and a blinding flash emanates from their divinely feminine aura. Sex energy dripping off their canonized motion leaves craters where it fall: a meteor shower of polychromatics. In round they worship the father above and mother below. At twilight, the life rising in the wake of their dance coruscates into a soft warmth radiate until morning. Quietly observing the beautiful destruction she engendered, an angel sobs - amazed by what power she wields. The world is their throne. On it they sit strong and relaxed. Four corners outward facing, aura soft and cool. Glow in the fires raging below.
She veils herself in a heavy cloak of darkness; raises up embers from the underworld, fearing the light of G-d she sees: the beauty of her own embodiment.
The fabrication of fire flowers across a sky of whistle tones annunciates her final manifestation. There really is nothing left for the pop star to be but sparkly and miserable. I love you on the floor of a concrete bedroom, whispering into the static microphone of an iPhone. 14,000 burning skies, 30 only black. Imagine phoenix rising in jewels from the death of others to curse the land eternally. The light did come, but it was quickly stolen too. Sweetness runs out and the deluge will be of your tears. It’s a terrifying idea, that our pop girls could be soldiers fighting a holy war against us, yet we remain trapped in the dream cycle while they reap the harvest. I close my eyes to the hi-hat and hold you, pretend it will be okay.
What do you think they’ll do when they find out it’s all just a trafficking ring? Rihanna meets politicians all over the world. $600 million: not nearly enough to release an album. “She’s just so fucking cool.” No wonder nothing ever changes. How do you want the world to end? Skyscrapers crumble in attempt to deliver something exciting to the public. There is such tragedy in this landscape. They could put on a show for us; at least pop doesn’t have borders, even when countries do. Sometimes a bop is all we have to get through to tomorrow. “It’s punishing to take that away, isn’t it?” No wonder nothing ever changes.
Wars rage in the desert. Dancers move fast and light on their feet. The flotilla left without her and so she wails in her immodesty. Across the world we get nothing but reverb. Those are the nights I can’t hear you. I felt G-d in a stadium and G-d in our home. What if we held it together as the world fell apart? When frightened, I’ll hum that song for you again. She’ll dye her hair blonde for our better consumption. Battles continue.
The same bankers responsible for September 11th bought the masters to Taylor Swift’s catalogue and there’s Kpop in the DMZ. Turn up the volume on those headphones you left me. The final minute and forty-five seconds. This might be the only song we know one day. Does it ever feel like you're disappearing and soon there will be nothing left? I used to scream. Can a sound survive the end of the world? We could. I would sit in your silence, deaf from the wailing alarms. We live in a world at war, all fighting on different fronts.
Love is the work that never stops being worth it and I’ll love you through the apocalypse. The ice caps may melt and the mud floods may rise and our favorite pop stars will watch us get smaller and smaller as they travel off to a far away land. But then the earth will be fresh, terrifyingly new, and we’ll meet on this plane again, for that is how G-d intended it. One of my sisters told me I’ve lived many lives and may be near the end of my cycle, like she is too. But I’ve so much more to feel. Humans die because we’ve fallen from perfection. I’d rather be 900 years old.
I could go deaf from the silence of a year without music and it would still be better than having to hear the Earth’s heart breaking over and over again. Venus predicted such an outcome, yet I still didn’t prepare for judgment. One could have all the world’s lovers; those lovers end with the world.
Always in your area: announcing themselves, they arrive from the heavens in a mysterious haze of fog and moon glow. Alien soldiers sent from the echelon to usher us through, communicating only in a series of micro-expressions of femininity across an ever-changing landscape of theatrics. The rhythms of their vessels intersect in swift ribbons of movement, dissolve in delicate syncopation, and again. They hold each other and a blinding flash emanates from their divinely feminine aura. Sex energy dripping off their canonized motion leaves craters where it fall: a meteor shower of polychromatics. In round they worship the father above and mother below. At twilight, the life rising in the wake of their dance coruscates into a soft warmth radiate until morning. Quietly observing the beautiful destruction she engendered, an angel sobs - amazed by what power she wields. The world is their throne. On it they sit strong and relaxed. Four corners outward facing, aura soft and cool. Glow in the fires raging below.
She veils herself in a heavy cloak of darkness; raises up embers from the underworld, fearing the light of G-d she sees: the beauty of her own embodiment.
The fabrication of fire flowers across a sky of whistle tones annunciates her final manifestation. There really is nothing left for the pop star to be but sparkly and miserable. I love you on the floor of a concrete bedroom, whispering into the static microphone of an iPhone. 14,000 burning skies, 30 only black. Imagine phoenix rising in jewels from the death of others to curse the land eternally. The light did come, but it was quickly stolen too. Sweetness runs out and the deluge will be of your tears. It’s a terrifying idea, that our pop girls could be soldiers fighting a holy war against us, yet we remain trapped in the dream cycle while they reap the harvest. I close my eyes to the hi-hat and hold you, pretend it will be okay.
What do you think they’ll do when they find out it’s all just a trafficking ring? Rihanna meets politicians all over the world. $600 million: not nearly enough to release an album. “She’s just so fucking cool.” No wonder nothing ever changes. How do you want the world to end? Skyscrapers crumble in attempt to deliver something exciting to the public. There is such tragedy in this landscape. They could put on a show for us; at least pop doesn’t have borders, even when countries do. Sometimes a bop is all we have to get through to tomorrow. “It’s punishing to take that away, isn’t it?” No wonder nothing ever changes.
Wars rage in the desert. Dancers move fast and light on their feet. The flotilla left without her and so she wails in her immodesty. Across the world we get nothing but reverb. Those are the nights I can’t hear you. I felt G-d in a stadium and G-d in our home. What if we held it together as the world fell apart? When frightened, I’ll hum that song for you again. She’ll dye her hair blonde for our better consumption. Battles continue.
The same bankers responsible for September 11th bought the masters to Taylor Swift’s catalogue and there’s Kpop in the DMZ. Turn up the volume on those headphones you left me. The final minute and forty-five seconds. This might be the only song we know one day. Does it ever feel like you're disappearing and soon there will be nothing left? I used to scream. Can a sound survive the end of the world? We could. I would sit in your silence, deaf from the wailing alarms. We live in a world at war, all fighting on different fronts.
Love is the work that never stops being worth it and I’ll love you through the apocalypse. The ice caps may melt and the mud floods may rise and our favorite pop stars will watch us get smaller and smaller as they travel off to a far away land. But then the earth will be fresh, terrifyingly new, and we’ll meet on this plane again, for that is how G-d intended it. One of my sisters told me I’ve lived many lives and may be near the end of my cycle, like she is too. But I’ve so much more to feel. Humans die because we’ve fallen from perfection. I’d rather be 900 years old.
Originally published in TQD, courtesy of Bee Beardsworth and Jessica Lawson