Robert Smith

Oh, Robert. What happened.

You were glory. I curled up on the red white and blue deco comforter my mom chose and stared at the liner notes and I couldn’t even understand how it was possible. “Play this music loud”, it said. The pageant of abandon I could not wait to join it crowded out the dozen other templates that nuzzled into vision and vied for internal relevance.

It was pie in the face ridiculous. No question. Somehow that was necessary. All these disparate signals and melodic tensions contrived to form a consistent message that was both vital and true. Black tressed, pale swaying alongside harsh and tragic masters the approval of which signified absolute validation and sensual fulfillment. They were out there. I was making contact from my signal tower gathering crumbs toward satiation.

And time passes. I see you in a hockey jersey. I see you now a jowly corpse retrieved from the riverside like old ladies who refuse to cut their hair and vainly tread against the inevitable. God, it kills me.

Give me better lighting and smoother cheeks and send me out to be in the night world and embrace on the dance floor. Take me back to the tiny room behind Pulsations and leave me there I won’t cut my hair go on without me. Go on without us.