The Ying. The Yang and The Yugly
Toronto. Saskatoon. Paris. Vancouver.
How I got from here to there and anywhere is really a matter for in between the lines. The train line blurs an imaginary scar across the heart when no one is looking. That is the way it goes. One minute up, the other down in a pick up truck with a bottle of beer between your legs and some juke is pouring out a monster hair ballad.
The Yin, the Yang and the Yugly. You know of them? A pair of coincidental incidentals if you ask me. Nothing but a pair of breasts attached to trouble. Or at least, the priest that sits beside me says so. I will take his word for it as I have nothing better to do at the moment.
Elliptical clips of light shatter behind their eyes. Hair is touching the ceiling, Siouxie never looked so sweet. Black beaded sweat. Hips, curves infirm. The hand wailing to an unknown syncopated beat. The priest shuts his eyes, putting his hands to his ears.
“SIN”, he cries but then remains silent. I am surprised. What did he think he would find on the train? Redemption? He gave that up for Lent. Sin? What sin? A few topless cards played to the left. Sin? Tears and weeping? Echoed laughter from a childhood murdered long ago? All I see are the lost, in their pain. Blurry lights fills the mist. That is why we are here, you and I. You and Him.
“Drink up my lovely”.
“It’s too cold” I want to say, but cant. I am mesmerized by her memory. Reflection in the glass of the broken. Is this what we seem? Is this a part of her seam? Is this the fabric that holds you together each and every day? Unbearable.
The man on the cross is still there. He won’t come down until you say, “I do.”