The Black Tar Mistress

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I was asked to contribute a piece to a memorial of a friend. Unlike most editorial / personal pieces, this had no confine or restraints. No word limit, no creative limit. Below is about 50% of what I submitted, some of it was just too personal and raw to post to anything remotely close to social media. respect .. love .. missing you always -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They say it's all about location. They say it's a signature sound. After losing so many friends and icons I've stopped chipping away at their secret lives. Eventually, without fail, they fall like stone giants and crumble to pieces. We're left with the ruble and broken hearts, crying babies and weeping widows. I held Andy's hair back when he puked. Years later, the smell of warm beer from rusty taps still takes me back to the exact moment when he crossed over from rock and roll 'ikon' to a cold, sweaty soulless 158 pound lump of soon-to-be-decaying flesh. I whispered reassuring words in the ears of the deaf. I prayed for the souls of the lost and weary. I held the hands of those clinging to life. I held my breath when their souls passed through me. The black tar ^||^ has stolen friends and lovers. Deep in the darkness I can still hear her voice, more than a whisper in the wind, less than a wedding vow. And now, your sonic therapy has worn thin. The sand and wind grinding away at your invisible epitaph. Yet another funeral – left tuned inside out with bleached bones. Another wonderwall comes tumbling down. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Image: “The Black Death” grotesque inside Châteauneuf-sur-Loire, France