ballad of the gothic lolita part 1

excerpt from verse novel

 4:45

hideous gargoyle demons from hell telling me i am

AY, late, selfish, horrible and

BEE, must change in the power of NOW because we are leaving for grandma's.

quietly, calmly, with all the elegant dignity of a gothic lolita, i say: NO.

 

so THEY confer, they jibber-jet, they argue, their voices in the other room thick with plans and plots.

akio and i are spying in the hall, hoping the circles  in the wallpaper will transform into magical transport vehicles, beaming us to atlantis or even an ice cream store or new orleans.

then

ominously

we all get in the car and go.

 

 

5p.m.

 

rolling out of tokyo in dad's silver subaru.

mom takes off her shoes. akio starts to scream.

someone slips in the CD: neodadapunk version of fool on the hill.

three chord guitar, smashing drums, bass injected into our spleen.

works like a dream.

akio is a good quiet boy.

i am a good quiet gothic lolita plus.

the plus is i am wearing my magic sunglasses.

 

6p.m.

at the rest stop they tell me to get out.

maybe they will shoot me.

now's your chance, says mom, handing me a crumpled bag that has the weight of dismal clothes, how dare she roam through my drawers.

go in there and change, she says.

the smell of gasoline and fried things, happy families scurrying in for treats and pissing.

akio waits to see what i will do, his face pressed up against the window.

dad blank faced out the blank windshield,  two hard fingers tapping out fool on the  hill with sharply paused smacks against the wheel.

 i peer into the bag and am not convinced by the ugly jeans and uglier top she stole from the back of my drawer, things i wore back when i was innocent. why would i change?

 

on the road again.

i like this song so much.  even better by the tenth time.

akio and i smile at each other.

we like this life so much, so let them sit in the front and be horrendous parents.

i've got akio, i've got my guitar, i've got my computer. i've got everything i could ever need here in the back.

 

 

we go through the monastery gates.

hold my breath as we drive past little child-faced statues lining the path

stinking of odorless death,

wearing fragments of real dead children's clothes,

all the colors leached out by the color sucking sun.

plastic pinwheels, in their grubby statue hands,

churning brokenly in the breeze.

how can these bring good luck?

 

we park and grandma meets us at the car.

 

(insert pic grandma looking stern).

i say hello

she looks me into the ground.

she always does.

her sternness never fades.

lolita doesn't phase her.

 

 

they leave me on the lawn with akio to go and talk

up on the hill

i'm on the new green grass, playing my guitar.

not really.

trying to work something out on the guitar with

the ring stuck on my finger is futile.

 

hate everyone, hate this day, this life.

akio's starting with the book again.

i don't want to know about it.

miyathebook the bookthebookmiyathebook! he's pushing it into my arm. bonk, bonk, bonk.

it's hot and i'm sweating, black sweat down my back, don't melt my dress.

sweat like black tears on my cheeks, better not stain my face.

 

they're ringing the first temple bells,  the circular sound that will keep ringing in your ears while you're inside doing the evening meditation, silent on the hard floor, alone with your own thoughts.

no one's hurrying in.

 

sliding my finger down the frets with akio's ring gives me a good  idea.

i'll learn to play slide like dolly parton.

it could sound really good.

i could mix it with my sound samples of the subway, the screeches of matsu's whines,

i'll mix it in with the sizzling rain on the crooked funky alleys of shimokitazawa. i'll make the sounds bleed black and neon, invent a new language like the streets, with no numbers on the buildings, love propels you home