Orpheus Breaks-Up the BandPeter Shippy
My minders take me for rides. The guitarist gets tight with dramatists. My face resembles a collage of torn photographs. Each day I wake to new moon-faced girls, laid out like pizza boxes on my hotel room’s floor. The bass player wants to switch to sitar— she wants us to board the ragatón train. What is it they teach you at Songwriting School: say autumn not fall. The drummer majors in punch-ups with the paparazzi. He swags all night in maenad clubs. Tell don’t show. My management team’s makoing deals. They’ve signed me to sigh out for cell phones, gyros and Chinese cigarettes (shh, they say— no one will hear those adverts here). Have you read what the kids are typing in the blogosphere? They act as if I bit Eury on the ass. Like I hired Aristaeus to mug her? Like I placed my snake in the woods, just so? Please. One minute my beautiful wife was gathering flowers (as the poets do not as they say) the next minute she’s dead. The fanatics once were on my side— what went wrong? Didn’t they understand the refrain in “You’re the Iliad in My Odyssey”? Here, let me sing: When you’re in hell I’m in bliss which is Hell in old Thrace Nice, huh? And I meant every word, too. Sure we had our ups and downs. But in the end Eurydice was the only one who believed that I was a true artist. She didn’t laugh when I said I wanted to write librettos. So, I’m going to the underworld to bring her back. Don’t snicker, no there are ways, if you have means—if you know the right hands to grease. Plus—and don’t read me wrong—I think this might make a nice song— maybe a Broadway show? But first, I need to see a deathly man about a ferry! Always subvert the ordinary with adverbs and exclamation points.
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