He watches from the wings
as she takes her final bows.
Hoarse screams fill the rafters.
Bodies roll through the aisles.
They surge against the stage
like lemmings in full flight.
Yet security stands ready
and security holds tight
to repulse her hapless thralls.
This steady wall of deaf men,
who cannot hear her songs,
has saved her more than once.
Her albums all go platinum.
Her concerts fill the halls
When the tickets go on sale
the lines queue for blocks.
The critics praise her artistry
and marvel at her range,
from a virginal soprano
to a rich and knowing bass
that includes a magic mezzo
and a pure contralto scale.
Yet once they are alone
in a sumptuous penthouse suite
-- her make-up stripped away,
her gown a wrinkled heap
and the music far behind --
she collapses on the sofa,
a damp cloth across her eyes,
until her real self emerges
and her real voice opines:
“If you'd booked a second show,
we could have upped the gate.
That drum solo was lame,
the bass line somewhat thin,
and the stage was far too small.
Put the flowers over there.
Where <MI>are<D> my fluffy slippers?
Don't forget to call Chicago.
Bring me more champagne!
Tomorrow I'll sleep in.”
As they iconize her photos,
wearing headphones like a vice,
as they hatch erotic fantasies
far beyond their reach,
as they multiply their longing
to the sum of their lives,
her addict-fans could never,
in their dark and wildest dreams,
imagine how her siren's song
can become a harpy's screech.
appeared in Weird Tales
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