You don't need a red light when
you've got a red dress, and I need you to
redress these broken, bleeding wrists.
They're dripping red, so you can't see the
stains on your dress, but it was the
chains of love, of adoration, that left me lifeless,
loveless, and left me with a contempt for red.
-
The street lights are leaving a red cast upon
the sidewalk, but will it last along the burning
of the bulb? Won't the blood dry into black,
turning the would-be's and should-be's back?
Wouldn't the sight of a street side massacre
turn back the bravest of the street wise boys?
That's what you get for acting coy, darling,
starling of the night, redbird of my lie.
-
The scars are inflamed with the memory
of a painful history, framed in the pages
of a journal. A diary: the chassis of obsession,
the allowance of idols and "I love you's."
A pen is like a flood of the days and nights,
written in blood, in red ink straight from the
wrists that are pushing it across the page.
While walls are like a cage and morals are like
the lock that holds us back, the pen and ink and
diary are the skeleton key and legerdemain that
let us out onto Fifth and Main to the street corner.
This street corner with a coroner and crime scene
is the stage of this play thought out by green eyes
and a keen mind with a deft hand and an obsession.
-
This street light is leaving a black cast upon
the girl's back, and it's lasted through the burning
of the dress. The blood is regressing with the heat,
symbolic of the glorification of passion, of obsession.
This street side massacre is not a mass occurrence,
just a crime of passion and of love and of jealous rage
that ended with the life of a Harlem harlot, a redbird,
only one actor in this play. A zealous page that ended with
the burning of a dress, with light fading from bright green eyes.