dancing as therapy
by chris.
soundtrack for this piece written by bill callahan of smog entitled "i am star wars!"
(loop repeatedly as long as needed for best results)
my pockets are full of frustration and my brain is on the stairs
sitting and waiting to be splattered.
fingers beating on the countertop. i don't know whose fingers
they are but they feel as mine.
all these guests, these freeloaders, in my house, my home!
"who are you?" she had run into me, holding a champagne glass full
of fingernails.
"sexy motha fucka!" she sings to the music, but it's the wrong song.
she lies down on my couch.
these people these people these people. my sinks all have socks
plugging them up and the showerhead is spraying in all directions.
they've brought in hunting trophies now. i can't believe this. piss
is everywhere. the smell of rot, of my old high school's toilets.
i promised myself long ago that i would never live in a place that
smelled like those toilets.
everyone is dancing so i dance with them as i slowly head toward the
door. if i act casual i'm sure they won't know what i'm...not the
television. someone spraypainted my tv screen black. knight rider
is on, i recognize the car's voice.
i dance my way to the door
"love the party!"
"i want your baby!"
"where's the beer?"
but i can't dance so it looks horrid, but they don't seem to mind.
it's more like i'm waddling to the door.
i get there and i go through the door, out into the night. my wooden
shingles smile at me and they speak in a british accent: "come on,
follow the music. repetition is key!" these shingles are great.
i light one of the shingles on fire while i'm still dancing, going back
and forth on either foot. soon the shingle next to my flaming one is
starting to crackle.
"good job!" the shingles say. thank god for wooden shingles. i barricade
the doors and i dance off into the night.
back to me