”Wild child, full of grace,
Savior of the human race.” – Jim Morrison
Amy Winehouse.
London born bibulous blue-eyed bouffant babe
Like a frenetic firework sling-shot atop the celeb. stratosphere.
From just another scat-singin’ Southgate street cat
of hazy speakeasies and jazzy jukebox joints
to the UK’s R ‘n’ B queen bee of such infectious
skill and foxy sex appeal unparalleled since the
cynosure of Joplin.
Alas, in an alcoholic train wreck, the latest derailed
royalty of a merciless music scene;
the young songbird’s sunshine now silenced
six feet under granite.
Tonight marks two weeks since, and especially poignant
Tragedy’s musk lingers listening to Amy’s records on repeat,
her rhapsodic stereo specter seeping ectoplasmic fingers
through the speakers t’pluck a tune off my nostalgic
heartstrings.
Once upon a less abstinent time,
entire skeletal cities and United Kingdoms could’ve basked
drunkenly in her spunky contralto-silked croons
as refreshing as an orgasm and belly-warming swig of
bourbon — resonating like a chain-smoking Grecian Siren
as she delicately dredged the silt from her sumptuous heart
on stages now only blessed w/ the melodious residue.
Swarms of concert-goers would kamikaze into her web,
mesmerized seeing vis a vis the lame-stream media’s
favorite larger-than-life endangered zoo animal as exotic
as a peacock, charismatic as a cat, breathtaking as a black
widow
poised in the all-seeing spotlight.
E’erynight she’d dress in the day’s turmoil and triumphs w/out apology —
What you’d see is what you’d get; no ambiguous bullshit;
God’s fresh breath resurfacing amongst a hypoxic sea
of wanna-be Madonas and plastic Katy Perrys
recycled o’er and o’er on the radio —
But just as swift as a phoenix can rise,
‘tis also assured an ashen demise —
Regardless how legit’s the maestro
Or guised under a jingle’s glitz,
Cemented is Stardom’s tempo
To whom ever mimics the singles
Or composes the timeless hits:
If you live fast
You die young,
Headlong for the Hollywood
Noose to be hung.
What a sick joke we play
when the punchline’s to hoist our heroes
high up like a blimp just t’profit off all their
over-inflated flaws & televised imperfections
like one big tomato splattered on their forehead’s
bullseye;
half of America hoping for another Heidenburg,
only this time w/ the igneous grand finale
in HD.
Those damn tabloid ticks,
Petri dish spawned for the sole
purpose to suck the life from perfectly
robust-blooded reputations,
sellin’ their every last dried-up
shit nugget of dignity; always tweakin’
seekin’ another cheap photoshop fix
from the paparazzi vampires —
modern Antoinette travesties –
But what anymore does it all matter?
This is the end. The music’s over. Crimson curtains
torn ‘n’ tattered descend on this lioness’ final
encore to an awkward applause of disbelief;
her claws sheathed, w/ no chance
of another remarkable roar.
*
Yama lets loose the infernal lasso of the damned,
brisk like a karmic basilisk, seizing quick the last
flair from the wick of Amy’s tummo. His verdict is strict,
steadfast but fair, cuing the phantasmagoria of Death’s
graduation.
Bamboo Tibetan rafts w/ sails of fabulous Bohdi leaves arrive
gentle as a koi from the West t’ferry her to the
celestial isles. Cajun gypsies w/ garuda-feathered
coiffures frolic and toss cosmic magnolias at her
helm. A N’Orleans brass band parades w/ Mardi Gras
jubilance at her bough, trumpeting her approach
to the warm, esmeralda shores of Shangri-la.
Haleakala to fields of the dankest, Jamaican ganja and psilocybin
springs snug among jungle bungalows where punk-rock
Mazatec curanderos, mohawked & tattooed all over
in Salvador Dali visions, conjure their magic to rid
the residual chindi of the land…
The silky sands peppered
w/ palm trees carved Rubenesque-risque in all sorts
of burlesque belladonnas & damoiselles crowned in
coconuts brimful of ambrosial rum & espresso t’imbibe
in tiki bars umbrellad ‘neath kaleidoscopic skies stars
of eternal bliss.
Hakuna Matata’s the matra.
Karma’s the maternal kiss.
You’re free… You’re free…
No more mask… No mirage…
Alfresco t’bask w/ the angelic entourage
of Morrison… Cobain…
Hendrix… Joplin… R.I.P. Amy
*
Albeit like a lightning bolt
Briefly t’have been ablaze,
The passion of her jolt
Like a smooth saxophone
In my heart forever plays.