Post by Robin on Apr 14, 2006 20:11:05 GMT -8
I wrote this a really long time ago to accompany a story that I'm not working on now. The story itself wasn't about a hooker, but the whole point of it was that the main character's love died a really short time after knowing him; she was something fleeting, something "bittersweet." I actually hated the girl myself, and that's why I wrote this, to try and make myself feel better about her. It didn't work, but I sort of like how this turned out, and even though I think it's a little too childish to even show in public, I think maybe I should try and spruce it up a bit. I don't have any of the notes from that story, and I really liked it, so I feel I should make this a fitting tribute versus a crappy one.
In case some background information would be useful, the original story was about a popular band's lead singer falling in love with a chick from the audience. Eventually that lead singer got butt-raped by his guitarist, and then went crying to the chick, and then they did it, too. In the end, the chick died in a motorcycle crash, and the band broke up. It was very corny and very childish, which is partly why I think I recycled all the paper that I wrote notes about it on. This story was the inspiration for another story I'm working on, though, and in it they're just a bunch of people who get high in their basement and whine about their life. Like that 70's show! But, uh, yeah. I thought some background information might help you see what I was trying to get at and not what I DID get at.
Oh, and the first stanza doesn't sound like it has anything to do with the rest of the poem, I know. I did say I wrote it a long time ago. At least a year ago, probably two.
----
It’s something sweet and sour,
The night at the Witching hour.
Cackles fill the dappled night,
Faces lit by ghostly light.
Ah, she’s something bittersweet.
In her home beneath a dirty sheet,
Stained with mud and blood and dirt,
Careworn as her flowing skirt.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
It’s something dark and would-be,
Something I wish I could-see.
A vodka-cig'rrette French kiss,
One that I know will not bring bliss
She’s something barely staying,
Her thin hips so subtly swaying.
Her smell a gust of perfume,
Faint roses all in pale bloom.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
She’s a butterfly that flits away,
Wings of rose fading to gray.
She’s something bittersweet,
Trying to make ends meet.
------
I used butterflies a lot that year. I also wrote two other things to accompany the story; At Least We Have Right Now, which was also childish, and Amber Butterfly, which was slightly more mature but also very naive and very IN-YOUR-FACE with the message.
In case some background information would be useful, the original story was about a popular band's lead singer falling in love with a chick from the audience. Eventually that lead singer got butt-raped by his guitarist, and then went crying to the chick, and then they did it, too. In the end, the chick died in a motorcycle crash, and the band broke up. It was very corny and very childish, which is partly why I think I recycled all the paper that I wrote notes about it on. This story was the inspiration for another story I'm working on, though, and in it they're just a bunch of people who get high in their basement and whine about their life. Like that 70's show! But, uh, yeah. I thought some background information might help you see what I was trying to get at and not what I DID get at.
Oh, and the first stanza doesn't sound like it has anything to do with the rest of the poem, I know. I did say I wrote it a long time ago. At least a year ago, probably two.
----
It’s something sweet and sour,
The night at the Witching hour.
Cackles fill the dappled night,
Faces lit by ghostly light.
Ah, she’s something bittersweet.
In her home beneath a dirty sheet,
Stained with mud and blood and dirt,
Careworn as her flowing skirt.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
It’s something dark and would-be,
Something I wish I could-see.
A vodka-cig'rrette French kiss,
One that I know will not bring bliss
She’s something barely staying,
Her thin hips so subtly swaying.
Her smell a gust of perfume,
Faint roses all in pale bloom.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
She’s something bittersweet,
Something separate from love’s heat.
She’s something bittersweet,
Just tryin’ to make ends meet.
She’s a butterfly that flits away,
Wings of rose fading to gray.
She’s something bittersweet,
Trying to make ends meet.
------
I used butterflies a lot that year. I also wrote two other things to accompany the story; At Least We Have Right Now, which was also childish, and Amber Butterfly, which was slightly more mature but also very naive and very IN-YOUR-FACE with the message.