Reasons to be Beautiful

I re-discovered this song today.

Reasons to be BEautiful by: Hole

Love hangs herself
with the bedsheets in her cell
threw myself on the fires for you
10 good reasons to stay alive
10 good reasons that I can't find

Oh, give me a reason to be beautiful
so sick in his body so sick in his soul
oh give me one reason to be beautiful
oh and everything I am

Love hates you
I live my life in ruins for you
and for all your secrets kept
I squashed the blossom and the blossom's dead

oh give me reason to be beautiful
so sick in his body so sick in his soul
oh and I will make myself so beautiful
oh and everything I am

Miles and miles of perfect skin
I swear I do, I fit right in
my love burns through everything
I cannot breathe
Miles and miles of perfect skin
I swear, I said, I fit right in
I fit right in your perfect skin
I cannot breathe

hey, baby, take it all the way...down
hey baby taste me anyway
oh you were born
so pretty oh summerbabe
we'll never know
and fading like a rose....

Give me a reason to be beautiful
so sick in his body so sick in his soul
I'll give you my body just sell me your soul
oh and everything I am will be bought and sold
oh and everything I am will turn hard and cold

and they say in the end
You'll get bitter just like them
and they steal you heart away
when the fire goes out you better learn to fake
it's better to rise the fade away

hey you were right
named a star for your eyes
did you freeze did you weep
turn to gold baby, sleep

hey honey mine
I was there all the time
and I weep at your feet
and it rains and rains

all righty then

I'm just gonna stop talking. And writing. And listening to other people.

Marcus Cafagna

I've been itching to read some Cafagna poetry all damn week. Allow me to share some of it.

Gloomy Sunday


If the instrument of your beloved's suicide
is within your reach,
get rid of it.
--- Traditional


This was the time of year, this gloomy Sunday
in October when I descended
our basement steps to the bottom of hell
and found my wife hanging
as if the lord mayor
had lured her to the other side.
Don't let me forget that Lansing place,
and wonder who lives there now
and what they make of our cracked foundation.
Let it be clear, but small, through a lens,
my wife's cropped hair, the chairs
so torn with fabric stripped from their arms.

She had promised she'd stay in this poor little world
and redeem the diamond ring,
but the ulcers in her colon did not stop
bleeding and the facelift seared her scalp
to the stitches and the manic depression
coiled her throat like a necklace,

burning pearl by pearl. But she could not
avenge the first husband's fist, or the CMT
at Fort Myers who left her in restraints,
hospital gown on backwards.
Or the snapshot pose with her father
on prom night, the secret bristling

between them. Now the dolorous wind
swings branches sharp-edged and shadowed
with clouds. Now the radio wakes me
from a bathroom floor in Pittsburgh, the clamor
on every station a summons
through evening's wormy pomp —

acid guitar, sarabande whirling
under electric globes, the voice of an angel
blown to dust-as if from my wife's
dying breath the germ I've caught
will self-inflict. Ridiculous thought,
but I'm throwing my extension cords away.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------




The Other Side


for my transvestite friend


I'm thinking tonight of the morning
Carla phoned from his farm in Michigan
to say he was wearing the lipstick and wig
and sitting alone on the plastic red chair

I gave him as mementos after my then-wife
had hanged herself. I doubt anyone wants to hear

his poem in praise of the slipknot,
or would see the sound of gunfire

outside my window in Fairmount Park
as a sign to read it. But here is a man

who even dolls himself up to teach literacy
to ex-cons, whose news that day was the glass pipe

he'd quit. And though it hurts to think of Dianne's
silk scarf caressing his unshaven cheeks,

a cornhusking impersonator
modeling my wife's Parisian splendor,

I have to admire the man for washing
her white chenille and hanging it out to dry,

the robe my dear one wore down each steep step toward a basement beam on the other side.

FYI

I find it impossible to feel happy for anyone at the moment.

All the people I should never fuck

	

	

	

				
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