The Pathetically Honest Romance Novel
It’s the same ol’ song and dance;
there’s always a girl with a heart
like an oven, a designer peasant skirt
and a history of just so much hurt not to be
pathetic. The boy is thick
with repetitious morals
but has a fantastic house
and there’s always an English country-
side where he ponders sermons
to give his victims, to make hurts
hurt more, tongue his war wound, his leaving
woman, over whose body his salt swarms.
A thing most strange and uncanny
as pink paper-maché over the breasts
and sawed-off arms on the sewing mannequin.
In the attic the girl must sleep in when not
cleaning she reads the signs that the story
was forged from another language,
the setting changed, the dates updated,
and only he’s there to say he’d never lie
to the fiery wrenched-up girl
on whom the story cannot center
because she’s playing in the parlor
a bourée, a dance that does not exist
in English. She sees past him in the pink
paper filled with Spanish or French or some
other words that are not real and says, God
this story really sucks, and starts
ripping out the pages, the pages before
which the real pathetic
heart is breaking.
- m.r. kidd
Love Junkyard (mp3) - Rickie Lee Jones
The Last Time I Saw Richard (mp3) - Joni Mitchell