The other night, I was looking for something to work on and came across a bunch of recordings of song ideas, some years old. Listening through, I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of many of them – ideas I’d completely forgotten about; it’s the writer’s equivalent of finding $20 in the pocket of an old coat.

This is the first one of the bunch I decided to work out the kinks from. Listen for my homage to a certain female Grammy-winning R&B singer.

The image is Portrait of Eugenia de Montijo, by Franz Xaver Winterhalter.

Yours in song,
Andrew.

(PS: As usual, the stoopid player cuts off the last few seconds. And, as always, my lazy ass recommends downloading the track and listening to it from your computer.)

Download the song by right-clicking here. And the image by clicking here.

These days, the kids are calling them mashups. We always just called them medleys. Thanks to Katie Dureault for the image.

{*The player seems to be cutting off the last 15 some-odd seconds. I don’t know why. Perhaps the internet is hiding it where all the lost socks go. Just download the file and listen to it from your computer.}

Download the song by right-clicking here. And the image by clicking here.

Kate held the phone close to her ear
as Sam screamed from
his end of the line.
She closed her eyes, which were like two
vast swamps of green lonesomeness that, when open,
seemed to be thick with the humidity of promises.

But now, shut tight against her pathetic sobs,
they said all that was necessary to understand
while revealing nothing – much like the pitch of night
which closed in on her from all sides.

She clung to the lamp post, her woolen peacoat irritating her neck,
her hair clinging to her forehead with the stick of sweat
despite that it must’ve been 40 degrees out.

“Sam,” she pled. “Listen to me.” She was still hoping
for reason to prevail. “I don’t have a lot of time. My parents
think I’m walking Buckley.” Buckley sat yawning beside her
like the obedient, veteran alibi he’d become
in these late hours of need.

“Fuck that dog! Fuck your parents! And fuck you!” Came
his response. With that, she heard the emotionless monotone beep
of his ending the call. And, resisting the urge to throw her phone
across the street and watch it sail into the unyielding night,
she quieted her sobs with the thought of how sweet and warm
and wet his kisses would be tomorrow morning at school,
while he held her in front of homeroom, whispering, both their eyes
wet with earnest desperation, “Baby, I love you,” he’ll say.
“You know that, dontcha? Baby, I love you like madness.”

“I know,” she’ll reply. “I know you do.”

Draping sentences,
like strings of Christmas lights she
hangs from eyes to heart.

{For anyone whose ever crushed on a writer they’ve never met, merely by reading the words they’ve written.}

Suzanne ate alone that afternoon, with
the bugs flying around her head
as she munched on her tuna fish sandwich
and drank her Diet Pepsi.
The only words she muttered the entire hour
were, “I wish I felt lonely when I am alone.”

When she was finished, she threw out the baggie
in the trash by the door, went back
inside the building, sat down
at her terminal, and answered the first call
that came in on the line: “Hey, sexy,
are you by yourself? I want to hear
what you want to do to me.”