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Message to Readers

so maybe this requires an explanation.
i have something called fantasy prone personality (fpp), which is a trait that hasn’t been studied too much. but in essentials it’s a form of very concentrated daydreaming, in which the dreamer centers their thoughts around a detailed imaginary world called a paracosm. i’ve inhabited my paracosm since i was four or five, and this made up person described in the poem is one of the characters in the imaginary timeline in my brain. i haven’t told anyone really about this world i inhabit, so this poem is really personal, even if it seems like a poem only about a rock star.

death of a star

February 1, 2019


he’s got a story; they all do
but for now, they are fixed on his face:
he is slender, marble-white
his lemon hair protrudes from high sideburns
like mashed sticks, firewood carved from
perfect sides of face
and his eyes too v
like stones on a river -
currents flutter in a dainty room.
he adjusts the robots attached to his ears
he lifts the mic, and he thinks
he can see it throbbing
like a dismantled heart
as he bellows pain into its rear
indeed, he can feel blood splattering onto his clothing
into his ears, onto the robots
he starts to cry: beads slip down granite;
he is hard, he is willing.

his mass was once half as much -
he was young, his hair like coal
his smile a beaten frenzy of playtime and confusion
a simple smile that he liked to flash
but every time it appeared, it
was beaten back into his chin -
his father’s stomach swam with
swallowed substances
that curdled his nature:
he hated smiles.
the son, disgusting son
was slapped every time, on the meat of the ears
sometimes he’d cry
sometimes he’d hide
but a lasso strung father to son -
no matter how far he ran
the pounding of his ears flew with him.
a century later, he’d end up crying
in a hospital room as chips were dug into
the bruises, and tissues were used to wipe
blood stains from earwax.
the father’s picture was turned upside down
or devil eyes were drawn into his laminated cheeks.

the star sways gently
if he is attentive, he can feel the music rippling
inside him, winding round the ink of his arms
but he must not be distracted
or else he senses the glare of the camera
and the whirring of the typewriter on a fresh page
and then he might sense
his father’s clouting again
he would, hide, perhaps, or laugh
so the star must focus on the music.
it unwinds in front of him, and he can see
the shining curl of a treble clef
spinning out of the strength of his lips
and the lyrics only he can understand
clasping the air like doves.
when he sings, he speaks the truth.
the truth
the truth
even though he is a lie.

the star is dead
he might have died
on an alternate timeline
or perhaps on a planet forever away
but i wouldn’t know -
i can only dream of him.
they say daydreams are magical
or mystical, or they show us everything
we want in the world
but i do not think this way
when i dream, my mind turns to his
i want to hug him, but his lack of presence
feels like ice to my
beating fingers
so i listen to his song
and i hope that someday
they shall hear it too
for unlike mine
his crying face has not been privelleged
with the touch of earthen air
so he can only sing
in my head
where he is mine.


See History
  • February 1, 2019 - 9:25am (Now Viewing)

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  • Johanna

    *insert mind blown emoji*
    Because that was just POOF

    over 1 year ago
  • rosemarywisdom

    I love this!

    almost 2 years ago
  • Mangolover

    Great piece! Love the metaphors btw :)

    almost 2 years ago