Prince Is Dead



Sometimes, three little words can say a multitude of things. lmr

Prince is dead.
If you say something
over and over again...
it stops making sense.           Prince is
It is such
an unexpected death      
my brain must
whisper it every few seconds
to convince myself
it's true.                                  Prince is dead.
I leave this indigo room,
once painted purple
I believe back in '92... because
purple is the color of a bruise and
it so reflected my own existence 
I could almost smile from the sweet
perversity of it.                                          Prince is dead.
And inside this night's debris
it becomes too painful to even
I choose to kiss
my lover's lips, insanely hard...
so hard... it hurts to be this
close.  My zipper hisses. But
our tongues refuse to swim.
Our sex is  skittish and then
angry.                                                          Prince is dead.
Our shadows fall like
marionettes with no strings.
His living voice sings and slays and
plays such 
sad symphonies
inside our brains.  I want to get high
or so freakin' drunk, I can't feel  my face
or any sign of  pain.                                    Prince is dead.
Inside, I am bleeding... and no one sees
this hemorrhaging.   When we're done,
I am crying.   My lover notices
but I can not stop.   My weeping,
it stifles words. 
The sound of it stirs the charged
Warner Brothers air with
this syntax of my deepest
despair.                                                       Prince is dead.
My lover turns and says to me,
"You wanna talk?"
"There's nothing left to say."
A phantom softness colors my voice,
that way it did his.   This nakedness
makes me suddenly less
ashamed, and more
powerful. I want to run,
to hit, to scream...
howl...  I want to start a revolution!
Yes!  I like to do something
Why?    Because                                      Prince is dead.
And we are still here...
Music video version:
copyright © 2016 by L.M. Ross
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