The more of you that I inspect,
The more of me I see reflect (Dave Mustaine 1995).
But when I went to see what’s what,
I looked around, I was a slut.
I’m in this, here, a room, I have a dictionary I have a bed.
You bought me too, paid food and drink,
Oh ho, your story takes a twist, the bed is red.
Tell me, what was I to you?
I’m a scholar, I know the words.
I just…don’t remember, let jog my mind; open the book:
Definition of concubine in English:
1. (in polygamous societies) a woman who lives with a man but has lower status than his wife or wives.
1. ‘Abraham ended up with a wife and a concubine, Jacob with two wives and two concubines.’
2. ‘Do they mean to train girls to becoming rich people’s wives or concubines?’
3. ‘Round about were the remains of two 20-year-old women (wives or concubines?), two 40-year-old men, and a dog.’
1.1 archaic A mistress.
Middle English: from Old French, from Latin concubina, from con- ‘with’ + cubare ‘to lie’.
It’s funny, isn’t it?
They used to tell me to…know my place.
This isn’t my place, is it?
It’s only yours. It is Orion. his name is Orion.
There is a pile of papers and books in the corner,
Near my mother,
She is insane.
“Gasoline was too expensive!” She sings, “I got kerosene~, ah, look! It doesn’t smoke as much! How lovely!”
I watch the fire. I’ll die here, impure. How many of my friends; they call it monogamy, but if you’re not a wife, you’re…concubine.
Let it burn me, mother Hail. The grandfather clock on the wall strikes twenty minutes of fire.
“Come now, don’t be retarded, look, it’s your man, calling in the hall!”
The flames are silent. They drift into the vents. The room is stone, it’s stone, it’s stone, it’s…the tapestry, a gift from mom, catches fire, then the rug, just let me die.
“Come, Alexandre, darling, listen!”
The fire, I am a kēmist by training, kerosene, “it is a flammable liquid and the vapors can explode.”
The air in the room ignites, a cold burst of red and yellow and orange and painful and mother help me
Engaged in crime I grasp my throat
Enraged my mind starts to smoke
Enforce a mental overload
Angry again, angry again, angry (Dave Mustaine 1995)—
Come dear, “she says,” I am disoriented, my bed is singed, but it didn’t catch. The rug is finding its way to me though. I’m dead.
“Come on, you can do it!”
I see her beckon. I hear from the hall, calls for his life. He doesn’t call for me, the trash man. All the servants are out, he is alone, but for me.
“Let the wicked burn in hell, my love, we have work to do here yet! Can’t you see them? They dance with the flames, the wicked, still, look! I want to join them, but my lovely, you still need taking care of, don’t you?”
You can always trust a schizophrenic; if she’s your mother.
I stand up, the bed catches, finally, sharing a moment of heat and lust with the rug. I don’t see smoke, but I cough anyway.
“Look!” he enters the room, my mother is still not helping, she’s helping, look, I look, I look, I loo-
“Hey, kiddo,” I say to him, I say to Orion.
Orion, my owner, looks at me, he’s frightened, paralyzed. He; I feel now, that my resentment was misplaced. He scans the books, on fire. I take the dictionary from the smoldering bed and add it to hell pyre (Zelos Wilder 2003), and laugh as my mother does; the saccharin laugh of our family.
“Nice of you to join us, what’s burning, did the vents do their job?” I stride to the window and open it. The flames feed on the oxygen, the atmosphere, my life.
“Everything! There was a burst in every ventilated room—”
I hated him, so I took him and threw him out the window, save them from the flames, I called.
Then, my mother and I, we left the building and let it die, die instead of me, I’m more important. I’m more important.
Due to an immense amount of stress, this week is a repost of something I posted a while back. This is a repost of a piece I published earlier, but this time it isn’t split into two pieces. I’ve been meaning to put this up as one piece anyway, so here we go.
This is a piece that happens a few years after Dirge’s Second Operation, which is also worth checking out.