>10 years ago today, Princess Diana died. I had no attachment towards her, but for some reason, the event brought out a lot of what other crap was going on in my life. I watched the 24 hour coverage of the tragedy after returning home from a trip to Vintage Vinyl with friends. I did overhear a worker say something like “Did you hear about Princess Diana’s car crash? Apparently her boyfriend’s dead and she’s looking pretty bad.” And by the time we got to my house, pretty bad went to pretty dead.
I was transfixed by the news coverage for some reason. Yes, maybe I am the guy that slows down to look at an accident. It’s because of my concern for the folks involved. I don’t really know why, but I grabbed a notebook and started scribbling away, even with company around me in my parents’ basement. It probably had to do with intense reading of Jim Carroll and Jim Morrison poetry at the time.
For the next 2 or 3 years, I filled notebooks of this stuff. Sometimes it doesn’t seem too bad. It at least helps archive my mindstate during some tumultuous high school years. What I wrote from that span around Di’s death is below. I may post more at a later time.
i. Labor Day Weekend
Yesterday Diana died
I’m a petty, preteen eighth grader.
Irish girls give mean head
in the midst of seratonin shortages.
Needy muscular distrophy patients begging
in the night, Princess Di—deceased, and the bleached diabetic needs sleep. Sidney Omarr is idolized… under pitch black martian skies; playboy Egyptians crushed.
Jealousy is heavy in the oxygen, crotchless underwear jokes give belly laughs, the Princess of Wales is dead.
ii. The Weekend After
Mr. Omarr can kiss my ass in hell,
the A.C. can’t return my splendor.
But anyway, my mother in Calcutta passed—synchronicity reigns the night.
Replacement spectacles can misrepresent emotions, another loved one rides into the sunset.
Underbellies of sasquatches frighten my inner child—
I’m a lad in a fetal position—whining and waling—
someone come and rescue me,
someone grab my hand,
I need to feel the touch of human flesh.
[Did you hear Diana died?]
I strive for a happiness I once knew… there’s a black hole sucking at my Paxil.
Forgive Diabeto for being so selfish; his passion for a returning paradise is no longer at an underground status.
Next in the series of three, the stars point to the Pope or myself.
Cocks and pimples stare at me… singeing the hairs on my anal passage.
The Irish mumble and I remain silent.
What future lies ahead for endocrine patients?