(Some prose for you, to make up for the self-indulgent post earlier. And yes, this is inspired by exactly what you think it is.)
Yesterday, I saw, graffiti’d over a poster of two naked women writhing, ‘the broken king lives’.
isolate rather this element
I was sixteen when I first saw the Broken King in concert, and he (sheittheymeiwe) took my breath away with his beauty.
When you’re in a concert, you’re not human anymore; you’re part of a miasma, and the music the Broken King made spoke to that miasma, to that prismatic feeling of at once being very tiny and being very huge; being everything and nothing.
And, halfway through the concert, the Broken King turned and looked at me, and beneath his eyes, I felt no larger, and no smaller, than an insect.
This morning, I saw, carved into a tree on my way to work, beneath a love heart and two indistinguishable names ‘the broken king thrives’.
spreads through other lives
My friends and I went home from the concert, drunk and high, and put on the Broken King’s record (I don’t remember which), and smoked pot, and I remember my best friend Lucy went down on the guy I loved, but I didn’t care, because the Broken King was singing, and as long as he sang, everything was okay, and I was fingering myself to the rhythm of that beat, to the haze of the marijuana, and when the Broken King moaned in pain at the climax of the song, Lucy suddenly broke away from Jerry’s cock and laughed, bright and high and sparkling.
“You’re coming,” she declared, delighted, and fell upon me in a tangle of legs and arms and tongue and lips and I think that was when I stopped liking boys.
There was a post-it note pinned to my cubicle, and all it read was ‘the broken king remembers’.
like a tree
When I was twenty-one, heartsick over my first loveloss and trying to get over it, I put on the Broken King, and it was like I was back there, in that pokey bedroom, getting high off of sex and drugs and the Broken King’s voice, and I started swaying to the music, eyes half-lidded, and the pain started to ebb, slowly.
The Broken King understood. Because the Broken King understood everything.
When I went to the bathroom, the door was a mad mash up; all it read was, over and over and over and over ‘the broken king sees the broken king sees the broken king sees’ and, in giant letters at eye level where I sat ‘YOU’.
violence a long way back
After Lucy, and Jem, there was Carol, who never laid a finger on me, and that was about the best thing you could say for her.
And when the anger got too much after I left – after I burnt her letters and threw away her gifts and blocked all her numbers and filed the restraining order – all that was left, all that was ever left, all that ever understood me, was the Broken King.
I was starting to suspect that the only one who would ever love me was the Broken King.
A billboard on the way home; I had thought it was an advertisement for beer, but a second glance revealed the words ‘THE BROKEN KING KNOWS’.
and wrong rewards
I was there when the Broken King died.
His last words were ‘I will always love you, and I will always be there for you all’ and then he took an empty syringe and shot himself in the arm.
I couldn’t listen to his music; his words just felt wrong, like hearing audio out of tune with the visual on the movie.
I just couldn’t.
The last person who always loved me had finally left.
As I slowly walked past the billboard, the lights flipped, revealing the Broken King’s face watching me…
and arrogant eternity
The internet filled with messages of eternity and immortality, but they meant nothing to me. How could I listen to his music when he was gone, dead, destroyed, disfigured?
…or was he?
Music poured out a nearby club.
I slowly walked in.
Lucy was there; so was Jerry, and Jem.
And on the stage, perfect in all his glory, was the Broken King, immortal, eternal and glorious.