Once upon a time there was a disillusioned grad student, screen name: scarsarestories. Blocked from carrying out a government scholarship funded project on children and psychotropic medications by a right-wing educational institution, she decided to start a blog. She had never wanted to write for an “academic <cough> elitist <cough> <ahem!> audience” before, anyhow, she wanted her words and opinions to reach a much wider spectrum of people – that of anyone, anywhere, that could easily access her words. It was a dream come true when I started seeing page views slowly rise from ten per day to one hundred and beyond. I certainly have not made a killing (or a living !) *lol* ) as a blogger, though I hope that eventually I can jump off this platform into a career as a writer. But I’ve made some things that are far more valuable than dollar bills.
I’ve made friends. I encourage you to “friend me” on facebook to interact, because that is just how I met a couple of Ontario readers who I now consider soul siblings: the fantastic Sarafin, author and illustrator of Asylum Squad, a web comic (soon to be in print! ), and “Ma Magie”, Richard-Yves, also a wonderful writer, of the lyrical poem that shares its title with this post and countless other gems, some of which you’ll find on his blog and elsewhere on the web. I do not make friends all that easily, but I’ve made two, and I did not ask for or anticipate them, but they arrived and I knew I must be doing something right. These two are now good friends, and get to see a lot more of each other than me due to geographical realities <jealous? me?!
>.
I guess what I’m trying to get out of my trap is that a tiny little community has arisen among these archived writings – two years of my life, expressed whenever I could, really, express myself, and a new brother and a new sister sprung from the annals, and I love them more than many ——.
Rick wrote these beautiful “lyrics”, the sum and fabulous poem is as great as its parts. The song is the metaphor. I am reminded of this Bright Eyes tune:
, but it pales in comparison to Rick’s rhymes. I leave you with, “…The Song That Never Ends”, lyrics by Richard-Yves Sitoski, vocals, etc. by (the awesome, as well) Jake Chegahno, photos added by yours truly. (click for youtube music video).
Here are those fabulous lyrics, and a fabulous poem:
“HERE IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS…
This is for the ones who never learned to wait,
And this is for the ones who formerly were great.
And this is for the ones who just ran out of luck,
And this is for the ones who just don’t give a fuck.
And this is for the gravel you picked out of your wound,
And this is for the decade you spent locked in your room.
And this is for the nipple that burns beneath your tongue,
And this is for the majesty you had when you were young.
And this is for the sparrow singing in the rafters,
And this is for the bomb and the silence that came after.
And this is for the crimes committed by your god,
And this is for the children spoiled by the rod.
And this is for the morning and the promise that you gave her,
And this is for the evening when you knew you would betray her.
And this is for the side effects that are worse than the disease
When the pills you take to kill it bring you to your knees.
And this is for the book that’s full of wisdom till you read it,
And this is for the wolf that’s full of kindness till you feed it.
And this is for my sister who crawled out of the wreckage,
And this is for my brother who never got the message.
And this is for the grownups who like to play with dolls,
And this is for the clerks who liberate the malls.
And this is for the gambler who knows he’ll never win,
And this is for the regiment and all their next of kin.
And this is for your third eye rolling in its socket,
And this is for the soul that fell out of your pocket.
And this is for the sow’s ear you made out of a purse,
And this is for the tricycle, the ambulance, the hearse.
And this is for the bricklayer whose bricks contain no straw,
And this is for the boxer with crystal for a jaw.
And this is for the martyrs whose heads are served on platters,
And this is for the Dormice, the March Hares and the Hatters.
And this is for the radical defeated by tradition,
And this is for the moderate lost in the transition.
And this is for the shackles and the chemical restraints
And all the clothes you soil and all the air you taint.
And this is for the captain who left you on the boat,
And this is for the chill that creeps beneath your coat.
And this is for the angels who’ve never heard of sin
And give away to devils their alabaster skin.
And this is for the vinegar that happened to your wine,
And this is for the tapeworm that happened to your swine.
And this is for the id that rises from the seas,
And this is for the ego that cowers in the trees.
And this is for the cross from which your son descended,
And this is for the mantle and the shroud his mother mended.
And this is for the silt that used to be the harbour,
And this is for the leeches and the razors and the barber.
And this is for the moth that made it through the flame,
And this is for the freedom of abandoning your name.
And this is for the magnet that’s buried in your breast
That draws you to the iron of an imaginary west.
And this is for the lover who rose and walked away
When hearts became a game she got too tired to play.
And this is for the artist who pissed upon her canvas,
And this is for the boss who pissed upon your answers.
And this is for the mother who took to drugs and drink,
And this is for the son who took to wearing pink.
And this is for the women the detectives file in boxes,
And this is for the chickens guarded by the foxes.
And this is for the trees because they grow on money,
And this is for the flies because they die in honey.
And this is for your joy at playing with the heads
Of men who think they own you when they strap you to their beds.
And this is for the drug they slipped into your liquor,
And this is for the spine that was broken by a feather.
And this is for the bandage and the blister and the blood,
And this is for the fight before the flight before the flood.
And this is for your daughter playing in the sewer,
And this is for your mother who died before you knew her.
And this is for moonlight that spills across the floor,
And this is for the luggage that night drops at your door.
And this is for the brine on Adam’s dying lips
The day he fell in Eve and drowned between her hips.
And this is for your body on which you carved a picture,
And this is for the Braille in which you wrote the scripture.
And this is for the song that ends as it began,
Like the face of Ozymandias weathering to sand.
And this is for the song that begins the way it ends,
Like the mortal enemy who used to be your friend.”
Words by Richard-Yves Sitoski, Photographs by scarsarestories
. Without further ado, 
