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TRASH |
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by Charles Carreon
Follow her down the streets, down the dingy sidewalks, in her ashen footsteps -- Trash.
She's strung out on him, and he's nowhere to be found, and I'm hung up on her, just hanging around, so we're both Trash.
But she's the Queen of the Night in my twisted sight, and down the sooty streets I follow, hypnotized, until she wearies and her weary steps lead up the shabby stairs to a room with a TV desert view.
Frizzed hair, once blonde, is now a cinder, soft skin, once clear as diamond's turning back to coal; all this I see as I argue with her, at the bus stop, by the change machine, in the pool hall where she's looking for her thing.
Trash, she's turned to trash, my emanation, on probation, turning back toward gates of darkness once again; they hypnotize her, draw her back to worthless contemplations leading in.
This is priceless degradation, but I'm leaving now; you won't turn to say goodbye, just sitting on the couch with listless eyes; you'd do anything I'd ask you to, you're so demoralized.
I close the door and walk back down the stairs, while television voices echo in the air. Goodbye, beloved Trash, Your soul all turned to ash -- The television images of glamour that once danced in your hair Are permanently gone.
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