Shortly after the tragic death and premature death of Amanda Palmer, (the mysterious nature of which served only to add considerably to her previously acquired mystique), stories, poems and stream-of-consciousness writings began to appear, first in blogs and chat-rooms, then in other forms of internet based viral distribution formats such as auto-forwarded emails and Facebook applications etc.. These have come to be known as “Palmeresques”.
You weren't ripe for the picking, 'Manda, and now you'll never be. And it burns me.
Without the possibility of you, I just sit around my desk at the library, my hands tumbling and fumbling, awkward caged birds, feathery complaints, hearing the radiophonic crackles of the ghost of your voice, your feigned smile gliding mid-air, right in front of my face, cold sweats... I reach for your fingers but they're traces of incense, no bone to chew, no fingernails to bite of. And it burns, not you, not yet ripe for the picking, never
I should of thought there would be someone else with their greedy lil' eye on you, some other hollow-chested being such as myself. In my lunch break, at each bite of my sandwich, I see his dishevelled hair partially covering blistering eyes, a rabid three-legged dog bashing your head in against a sink, slithing your throat with a x-acto blade, leaving your naked corpse in a Venus de Milo-esque pose right in some corner of the park. How unimaginative. Only to be found by a jogger and his husky dog. Clichéed as hell. I yawn at this poser, this eager excuse for a ripper. Men. Yawn. I'd have been different, 'Manda. You should know us, girls, are way more creative than that. I'm left wondering if he touched you and I push away such thoughts, disgusted. Lousy poser, jerk, fucker, I bet he licked your face, oh God, gross, barf, fucker
Still, I play it back in my mind over and over again, the way I'd do it. I admit it's still a bit too unrealistic, but I rather dwell in fantasy, in possibility. That's why I like working in the library. So many psychowriters, books humming, the entire room humming with wounded and unfulfilled fantasies, like my hands, caged birds, flustered, impatient, rotting slowly in captivity, delirious
You've just arrived in my hometown, you are going to play a show here and you're twitting, asking for a good place to get a haircut. I answer right away, blowing you away - ka-boom - with my refined sense of humour, my quirky and dumbfounding wit. You come alone. You meet me outside the library and I show you around, while I pretend to feel starstruck and tell you about the awesome underground art vibe of this town. While I lie through my teeth, you irradiate happiness. I pretend to be a part-time hair designer, experimenting with ink and brand-new european trends. We end up in my loft, you find my parakeets delightfully colouring and I stretch your head back, exposing your neck. I run my fingers through your hair, letting you feel warm water, you let out a moan, I reach for my scissors and
I never got past this part, 'Manda. Don't laugh. It's just that the warm water, the parakeets, the evening sun bursting in through the window, the promise of possibility hanging in the air... I just wanted to breathe in that scene forever, you offering me your neck, tilting your head back, trusting, blindy trusting, glowing, you always glowing, me basking in what makes you, you
That's why I'm different from that fucker, I didn't want you as a win, as a wife, my scissors wouldn't kill you, like some Sweeney Todd fanboy, I'd just, I don't know, release you, you and I, together, you with me. Lovers consume one another, don't they, only to be born again. Life can't be confined within these bodies, condemned to repeat itself in an infernal loop, we have to give it wings, not caged birds, scissors, cutting away the grey, this pounds of flesh, freeing us, 'Manda, you and me
And that's why I miss you, 'cause you were making my hollow chest feel something, I don't know wether it's love, anger, lust, sadness, I don't know what it is, what to call it, that's why you weren't ripe for the picking yet, and he, that bastard, it burns me
I'm sure without you this thing in my chest will wither away and die, unbaptized, uncommunicated, left caged in my chest, humming along with these books, these hellish flames confined in books, work of psychowriters too lame to act them out or maybe just victims like me, some loser, some pretense wannabe with complete disregard for art, cutting away flowers way too soon
What shall I do now? I was hoping you'd tell me, 'Manda. I guess I was hoping that, one of these afternoons, I'd be greeted home by colourful parakeets and your glowing self. You'd sprinkle me with warm water. It's warm. You'd tilt my head back and expose my neck. You'd run the scissors through the line of my shoulders and make me moan. And you'd just release me, cut me loose with scissors, so that I could, I don't know, reach this thing you left in my chest, my once hollow chest, and, with you by my side, both us free and flying through the sky, I’d hold this thing in my hands like a baby and you would whisper its name in my hear,
you and me as soft as doves, blood running through my loft, and I'd hold this thing like a baby and I’d finally know exactly what to call it
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