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Amy Winehouse

Updated: May 7

”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


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


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


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


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.

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