Art Pop

An art pop singer plays on the radio as I drive in the early morning to work.

A soft drizzle falls down, making the world even darker and more obscure.

The art pop singer has wild bottle fed blonde hair, and dark made-up eyes.

She reminds me of a wild and brave girl I loved back in high school, lost now.

 

One of her softer songs, filled with romantic regret and loss, of being alone again.

I try not to think of regret or loss now, to worry the worn white bone of my mistakes.

Still, I remember that wild and brave girl, and I hope she’s still proud and free now.

John Steinbeck book in my backpack, I found it used, remember she so loved him.

 

The next song comes on, another young woman, bright and sweet and so aggressive.

Happy songs seem like assaults, exalt or else, don’t acknowledge any of the bad shit.

What did that wild and brave girl listen to back then? Punk? Noise? Sad bastard music?

I only want music that will shed tears with me, say yes, yes, it’s all gone black, bleeding.

 

A freight trains runs along the road, it’s wailing airhorn scaring away sleeping demons.

I let that happy song play, hope for something better in the next tune, resenting its joy.

I bought that John Steinbeck novel, and I hope all the best for her, after all this lost time.

I hold onto her, and the dreams I make myself miserable with, wishing I was still free.

 

But I know Sumner never thinks of me at all.

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