LOVELY DARK and DEEP

By Janet A Stutley

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

(Robert Frost – Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening)

Imposters

Here she is again,

sashaying like marilyn.

Blonde hair: “It’s baby-soft,” she says.

“I left the tiara home today,

but don’t you love my diamante clips?

I bought this in L.A.”

(low-cut silver lame, fishnets – black;

white faux/fox fur.)

Her tiny steps in tiny shoes

Match her tiny voice

Singing “Old Black Magic” breathlessly

In Bianca’s boutique.

At least she’s wearing knickers.

She doesn’t always.

“Harmless,” Bianca would say,

“But puts off the customers.”

I see something different in the mirror.

I see shadows behind the door.

Marilyn says: “Your hair’s so thick

It could keep off the rain.”

I think she despises me –

I don’t wear makeup.

I have a voice, too -

But not in daylight

in the street, sporting sequins.

I work on my cinderella thesis –

the possibilities of happy endings

- writing songs and childrens’ stories.

In my childhood was a house

with an overgrown garden.

We knew a witch lived there.

Someday, I must cut back

the briars, and donate

my black hat to the Salvos.

Bianca’s not herself.

Her husband, high-up in the bank,

left her on Valentine’s Day

for some young blonde tart. (Her words.

It wasn’t marilyn. She’s harmless.)

“Heartless bastard! Comes of working in a bank.

First they closed the local branch,

now they’re closing branches in the bush!

Gary’s moved into a flat around the corner.

I hope she chokes on his dick.”

She choked on something – they found

her body in the wedding-cake rotunda;

so I heard. It must have been when

I was wrestling with a fairy godmother.

(An unreliable narrator’s always trouble.)

Later:

I was mistaken. Wrong blonde tart.

Some britney clone – poor thing.

At least she didn’t sing.

Bianca will take him back. She’s far too soft.

Choices

In fairytales there are always woods;

smart wolves, small red-hooded figures,

castles set about with thorns, and hideous beasts.

Don’t go there.

Unless, of course, you hope to write.

Then you may trip down the twisted path,

open the cottage door; eat the forbidden sweets,

or kiss the frog.

There’s a song I don’t believe in:

“Someday, my prince will come.”

Unfortunate title; hints of impotence.

Don’t go there.

The Feral Furball has been slacking.

Rat droppings in the wine cellar:

not a good look.

Hope they don’t climb the stairs -

I’d rather have bats in the belltower

than rats in the upper storey.

I see the shapes flit over from the Gardens.

Once, I was bringing in washing at twilight,

and thought a giant moth swooped down the hall.

Still – they piss on everything.

Worse than koalas. At least koalas

have the sense to piss on politicians.

Bianca’s guy is back – for now.

He’s got trouble at work, and chose

support over sex; (unusual)

history over histrionics.

(The murdered one was his blonde’s best friend.)

There’ve been demos about the closures –

Gary’s head on a platter’s what they want,

A chorus line of single-minded Salomes.

It depends who gets to him first

Clues

I try something on at Bianca’s.

“Why choose black again?” asks marilyn.

“Red sequins are startling,

People stop and stare.”

“That’s why,” I think, but didn’t say.

I look through mirrors

into mirrors behind me,

down a tunnel, funnel, web;

a black widow spider spinning

the shadows. One fly only.

I lick my lips.

Marilyn found a roasted huntsman

On her pizza. It wasn’t me.

“It’s jealousy!” she said.

I have to do something about marilyn

Or she’ll take over.

STALKER’S WALTZ (LOVE OF MINE)

It seems just like yesterday, the day that we met.

We had nine months of paradise that I can’t forget;

Then you found another, left me to regret –

Love of mine, love of mine, love of mine.

I sang you a song and I wrote you a poem,

Followed you to the office, then followed you home;

Why did you tell me to leave you alone?

Love of mine, love of mine, love of mine.

I don’t understand why you treat me this way –

You don’t answer the phone anytime, night or day;

You don’t answer my letters or e-mail or fax;

And my carrier pigeons they never come back –

One Saturday night I got into your flat.

So you’d notice I’d been there, I left a dead rat,

Put crap on your doormat, and tortured your cat;

Love of mine, love of mine, love of mine.

Please blow me a kiss, dear, or drop me a line;

‘Cause if you persist, dear, in being unkind

I may have to kill you, I hope you don’t mind;

Love of mine, love of mine, love of mine.

CINDERELLA SONG

I got out my tiara

For the first time yesterday

Since I put it into mothballs

A thousand years away.

I ironed my chaste white ballgown,

I buffed my silver shoes.

Which role is forced upon us.

Which role do we choose?

Is he coming for the ride;

Or will he be left behind

In his narrow little life,

With his narrow little wife,

And his narrow little mind.

We used to be together

A thousand years ago

Heading for a happy ending

At least, he told me so.

There’s always someone younger.

They always lie and cheat.

How do they know the difference

In the dark, between the sheets?

Is he coming for the ride;

Or will he be left behind

In his narrow little life,

With his narrow little wife,

And his narrow little mind.

Marilyn and cinderella -

You can turn the tale around;

Different choices, different endings

Just two faces in the crowd.

But when the end’s approaching

And when the failsafes fail;

Just who has left the building,

And who’s left to tell the tale?

Is he coming for the ride;

Or will he be left behind

In his narrow little life,

With his narrow little wife,

And his narrow little mind.

Bringing it home

Now, Gary – we’re just here to talk.

If you must cheat on Bianca why not with me?

After all, I saw you first.

Well, if that’s how you feel

Why did you come?

You always were a double-dealing prick.

I’m tired of the crap

That comes out of your mouth.

Everyone is. I’d be doing the world a favour.

When it comes

right down to it,

what kind of death do you prefer?

The slow poison curling through the veins,

or the slick blade.

I like it quick,

With lots of blood.

Looks great on white.

Doesn’t it.

DARK LULLABY

Lie quiet, lie quiet, my princeling my dear;

The rats will not bite you, so hush do not fear

If they nibble a finger I’ll shoo them away.

If they come back tomorrow I might let them stay.

The cat it is lapping, the air it smells sweet;

You lie on the stone – are you only asleep?

I’ll light you a candle, I’ll say you a prayer

And take one more kiss just to show that I care.

Cherchez La Femme

I like cop-talk on t.v.

“It’s gone pear-shaped,”

that’s what they say:

“bring in the toe-cutters.”

More damage that way –

blood oozing from shoes

like the real Cinderella story.

There’s always blood in fairytales.

Red hood, snow white, silver hand.

Female blood. Cherchez la femme

making sacrifice for her happy ending.

As for marilyn, she’s happy -

doing judy, for a change.

I told you she was harmless

But can you believe

a word I say …

I’m up with the bats;

got the stuff,

about to fly.

Sirens scream –“Come to us.”

I’d rather trust the dark -

The lovely dark, and deep.

c.jaz. april/july 2002. (1295 words)