On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer (13 page)

And so it starts: the sun goes down

And city wide and city bright

The buzzing of fluorescent lights

Outweighs the dark and moonless sky

And all the silent passions drowned

By daylight's wilful sanity

And patience worn too thin, are free

To vent their pain about the town.

CHORUS:

They vent their pain about the town

They vent their pain about the town

Yes all the silent passions drowned

Now vent their pain about the town

NARRATOR: (Raising his hands to the Heavens)

Some say this is the end of days

Of History, of God, of Art

Of honour and restraint, all passed

Betrayed by that essential “now”

And “want” and “me” and “greed” and “lust”:

Morality has lost its way

And we have drunk too much today.

(
He looks down at the ground in despair)

CHORUS:

Oh we have drunk too much today

Yes we have drunk too much today

Morality has lost its way

For we have drunk too much today

NARRATOR: (Raising his forefinger to the audience)

Yet in that drunken overflow

That mad melee of lust and fight

That twists and scuffles, raining blows

Across the orange shadowed night

A gentle weeping found the heart

Of one whose sadness wandered by

And chanced upon a fearful sight:

(He staggers backwards, a look of shock in his eyes)

A little girl whose tears cried out

Amidst the city's dreadful shout

For sympathy and kindliness

And other friends whose time was passed.

(Once again he turns his eyes to the ground in despair)

CHORUS:

All other friends whose time has passed

Another friend whose time has passed

Yes sympathy and kindliness

Are all good friends whose time has passed

NARRATOR: (Gesturing towards stage left)

For there, beside her, at her feet

A crumpled mass of cloth and hair

And blood was pooling in the street

In silent gasps that found no air;

A person once, a woman, blest

With all the hopes of life to come,

Now chastened by the arms of Death

Cut short by hands whose dream was worth

But one more fix to help them numb

The pain of what they had become.

(He falls to his knees in an imitation of tragedy, his head in his hands)

CHORUS:

The pain of what they have become

The pain of what they have become

Just one more fix to help them numb

The pain of what they have become

NARRATOR: (Still on his knees)

And as she wept, that little girl

Her tears did mingle with the blood

And dirt and cans and cigarette stubs

That choke the gutters with despair

At all that had been done to her

And all that would be done again

For every evil known to Men

Is found within those stinking slums

Those dismal streets, those dreary paths

That mark our culture's epitaph.

CHORUS:

They mark our culture's epitaph

They mark our culture's epitaph

Those dismal streets and dreary paths

That mark our culture's epitaph

NARRATOR: (He jumps suddenly to his feet, and gestures imploringly towards the audience)

He stood and watched, our passer-by

And though he felt, as well he might

A poet's soul within his heart

He watched the woman slowly die

Whilst twisting tight his fine moustache:

He acted not to soothe her pain

Nor comforted the weeping child

But stood in silence, helpless, drained

Of power by sudden fright, deprived

By cowardice of all he thought

He might have been, or could become:

He learnt His Truth, and that night wrought

His impotence in future songs.

(A look of dissolute cowardice on his face)

CHORUS:

His impotence in future songs

His impotence in future songs

With a hey! and a ho! and a ding! Dang! Dong!

His impotence in future songs

NARRATOR: (He gestures towards the chorus who have gathered in a crowd behind him, then turns to the front, imploring once again)

He stood there as the sirens wailed

And soon a crowd had gathered round

The woman and the weeping child

But none would dare to step upon

The blood that spoke in eloquence

Of violence and its consequence.

No one reached forth to calm the girl

Whose freckled face and golden curls

Were smeared with blood and tears and bile

As in her arms she cradled all

That she could grasp of life now passed

A bundle made of arms and legs

And blood-soaked cloth.

     Till suddenly

A shout: Make way! Move back! Keep clear!

And men in uniforms were there

To sweep away the dreadful scene

Lest it offend the filth and sleaze,

Or mar the midnight reveries.

CHORUS:

Oh mar the midnight reveries

Let's mar the midnight reveries

Let's all offend the filth and sleaze

And mar the midnight reveries

NARRATOR: (Searching, his hand shielding his eyes from the sun)

But where, where went the weeping girl

With smearèd face and blood-soaked curls?

For none had seen her leave that place

Nor did the paramedics take

Her in their screaming ambulance

To file her name and stamp her heart

As “property of New York State”

It seemed as if she'd disappeared

And that was just a little weird.

(He paces back and forth across the stage, as if still searching)

CHORUS:

And that was just a little weird

Yes that was just a little weird

It seemed as if she'd disappeared

And that was just a little weird

NARRATOR: (A change in tone, now more factual, addressing the audience)

And so our poet passerby

Continued on his weary way

Much troubled by this weak response

When called upon; his impotence

To act when action was required.

What value poetry? he thought

When tragedy berates the heart

For letting such things come to pass.

What use to me is song and dance

If stand and stare is all I do

And think about the words I'll use

To make it mine, to take the scene

And frame it in bright poetry.

I am a coward and a rogue

Not worthy of the gifts bestowed

Upon me by the hands of Fate

I shall renounce my pen, and break

My staff upon the Heaven's gate.

(He raises his fist to the Heavens as if banging a great staff upon the Heaven's Gate)

CHORUS:

He'll bang his staff upon the gate

His virile staff upon the gate

He shall renounce his pen, and break

His staff upon the Heaven's gate

NARRATOR: (Looking down, as if taking a child's hand)

But then a tiny voice, a hand

And looking down he saw the girl

But now her face was clean, her curls

Were bright, her dress no longer stained

“Mister,” she said, “Do not be sad

Don't blame yourself for things you did

Or didn't do. There is no gain

In that. You didn't shoot the gun

You came upon her dead and gone.”

CHORUS:

You came upon her dead and gone

You came upon her dead and gone

It wasn't you who shot the gun

You came upon her dead and gone

NARRATOR: (Somewhat ashamed of himself)

“But I . . . I acted not” said he

“I merely gazed upon the scene

To steal its essence as my own”

“Tush now” said she, and touched a bony

Finger to her sallow lips

“'Tis past. But I would ask you this

Please don't discard your poetry

But tell your tale and write of me

Of everything you saw this day

Of her who died in such a way . . .”

CHORUS:

Of her who died in such a way

Yes her who died in such a way

Tell everything you saw this day

Of her who died in such a way

NARRATOR: (With kindness)

“And what of you?” he asked. “What now

Where will you go, what will you do?

What is your name? Who cares for you?”

“Oh I was never really here

It was your poet's heart that found

A way to make my spirit's shape

My name is hers, her name is mine

In many ways we are the same

A single thought in different form:

I am her last unfinished song

A ghostly song conceived in death

And then abandoned, left unsung,

And so I ask of you kind sir

Please write me into tender verse

And spread my voice about the world

For that is still my destiny

If ever such a thing can be.”

CHORUS:

If ever such a thing can be

If ever such a thing can be

Yes that is still my destiny

If ever such a thing can be

NARRATOR: (Reassuring)

“Oh, that's a promise I can keep

You have my word in certainty.”

Then, in that instant, she was gone

She melted into melodies

That whispered ripples through the streets

Disguised upon the autumn breeze

A distant half remembered song

CHORUS:

A distant half remembered song

A distant half remembered song

Yes in that instant she was gone

A distant half remembered song

NARRATOR: (He walks to the front of the stage. Once again a change in tone, now more factual, addressing the audience.)

And so the poet wandered on

Not caring where his footsteps led

For he was lost in melodies

And words were dancing round his head

Until he landed home at last

And set about the promised task.

(He takes a pen and paper from his pocket and starts to write)

CHORUS:

He set about the promised task

He set about the promised task

Oh when he landed home at last

He set about the promised task

NARRATOR: (As if telling a story)

For five long days he sat and wrote

And wrote and sat and did not care

For sustenance, nor did he fear

The fever rising in his bones

‘Till, as he penned the final word

His heart gave out, a groan was heard

Then nothing and the poet died

His promise kept, his oath preserved.

CHORUS:

His promise kept, his oath preserved

His promise kept, his oath preserved

He'd written out his final word

His promise kept, his oath preserved

NARRATOR:

For five long weeks his body lay

Unnoticed by the world around

Until his landlord came to claim

The money that the poet owed

And opening the door he found

A stinking corpse upon the ground.

But even selling everything

The poet owned, his books, his ring

His shabby clothes, his summer tent

There's not enough to pay the rent.

CHORUS:

There's not enough to pay the rent

No not enough to pay the rent

His shabby clothes, his summer tent

Were not enough to pay the rent

NARRATOR: (Very moral tone)

And so they cleared away the mess

And found upon the dead man's desk

A manuscript, an epic verse

That told of tragedies and woes:

How Poverty was raped by vice

Left bleeding in the street to die

And yet, a seed was sown, a life

Was made, a story born of song

To heal the heart that broke so long

Ago; to salve the festering wound

That marks our hearts within the womb.

CHORUS:

They mark our hearts within the womb

They mark our hearts within the womb

Those self-inflicted festering wounds

That mark our hearts within the womb

NARRATOR:

And as they cleared away the mess

They took the papers from his desk

And bagged them up with rotten food

And other rubbish from the room

And no one ever read the lines

That broke his heart, for which he died,

For in a dumpster they were put

And in a landfill now they rot.

CHORUS:

And in a landfill now they rot

And in a landfill now they rot

For in a dumpster they were put

And in a landfill now they rot

NARRATOR:

And soon a pretty girl moved in

Who had a job, and paid the rent

On time, and no one spoke of him