PopSat: Songs 3

I Am Not a Man
Lena Fayre

The sloop slips between the waves, the deck illuminated by a blood orange sunset. You adjust the chaplet on your head, fingers caressing the wood and fresh-bloomed flowers. The attached veil writhes sensuously in the warm Adriatic breeze; from your supine position its white linen seems to take a place in the sky amongst the leukocytic clouds. Will you ever see those villagers again? Their simple pleasure at greeting outsiders who drifted up their cove; and what was that cheese, something from the local goats? Damn, if only you knew some Croatian. It’s fine though, you can still pour a glass of – wait, there’s no more rosé? Shit.
The storm still rages outside, grey silicates whipping past the window at a hundred kilometers an hour; it would all seem disconcerting if you had ever seen a calm day on LV-426. True, the atmospheric processors have taken some of the edge out of the weather but this is a decades-long process. Decades in which you hope to find something, cash in your shares, and retire a rich man; you don’t want to be on Hadley’s Hope any longer than necessary. Oh look, the Jordens are back. They haven’t been out for long, must’ve had equipment tro-wait. Is something on Russ’s face? What the hell is that? The alert sirens sound but you’re already running to the garage to help.
Down in Mexico
The Coasters
You eject another stream of bile into the saloon’s copper spittoon and take a sip of cheap whiskey. You’re a man of few words.
Bom Bom
Sam and the Womp
Adelajda’s family house in Krakow feels animated: all the timbers and plaster pulsating with music, the bass pumping notes throughout the skeleton of the old manse. What’s that – sure, you’d love some body paint. Yeah, right there – where’d all these blacklights come from anyway? Shrugging, you lift your phosphorescent drink overhead to light the way, moving past the occasional human engaged in – performance art, you’d call that? – trying to find your friend. It’s been hours since you’ve seen her, maybe days. During the rare breaks in syncopation the noises of Stare Miasto leak in from outside: tourist chatter, slight peals of church bells, men hawking obwarzanek – of course you can see none of this, the blackout curtains have remained nailed to the window frames for however long you’ve been in this heart of madness. Maybe Adelajda will be in the next room…
Serenade for Strings in E Major, Op. 22 II. Tempo di Valse
Antonín Dvořák
The soles of your house-slippers rapidly sink and rise, leaving behind faint fading divots in the thick piles of various carpets. You’re walking as fast as you can without breaking into a run, clutching your treasure close to your chest; ah, here you are, your study. Your eyes and hands flit over the desk until you find the letter opener. Then and only then do you catch your breath and behold your prize. A cream envelope – thick, expensive paper this. On the front, your name so elegantly written out, and with a personal note: Sean ‘My Main Man’ Combs! You take the knife and slit open the envelope slowly, surgically, and pull out the card within. You thought it would never arrive, that you had been left off the holiday mailing list, but here it is. A picture of him and his wife on the front, arms around each other, text reading ‘Michelle and I just wanted you to know…’; you hurridly flip it over to finish the phrase, then choke back a sob and sit down, head in hand. The card lays on your desk, reverse-side up: a photo of Barack and Michelle flipping off the camera, tongues out. Hovering above them: ‘… West Coast forever! Tupac lives, bitch!’

Jan 31, 2015 | Posted by in PopSat | Comments Off on PopSat: Songs 3
Premium Wordpress Themes by UFO Themes