bagpipe

Scottish funeral on a grassy knoll. Sips (and gulps) of whiskey all around. Drone tones abound, as bagpipes play to send off the man that once meant so much to everyone. I think we should live in worlds where skirts can look good on a man, and embrace the moments and times where he is encouraged to “show a little leg”. The morning dew of the grass has soaked through my shoe and has thoroughly saturated my socks. My toes are cold, frigid – uncomfortable. I find my buzzed mind drifting to clothes dryers, and fireplaces in winter where it’s the warmest. I think about times before modern medicine and where someone might find that little piece of paper I crumpled up, in my handwritten admission of the fact that yes, I do have a crush on you. I can taste the barrels where this whiskey was aged. I suck on my tongue to absorb all possible flavor, but also because I’m nervous and and its cold and I don’t know what else to do to increase my own body heat. I look out upon misty mountains and here a bird cry out; It is in awe at its own freedom and location, privilege. He could’ve cracked his egg opened anywhere, but it was here, in these mountains where he was born. Here there are no noisy honkings of car horns, the mountains are not piles of garbage, the ground is not pavement, but sweet, moist earth where worms are plenty. Nostrils clear from the whiskey and mountain air. The bagpipes play and rip through my soul. I find myself sitting down, then succumbing to my back, arms spread in Eagle-like fashion and formation. And my eyes are bleary and now my back and bottom are soaked. But I don’t care anymore. Leave me like this, in mourning, blissed defeat. Carve down deep the outline of my body. Bury me here too. I won’t make it down the mountain. Cannot summon the strength or will. I will toss in turn in bed forever, knowing that open ends like this exist. The melody line hovers over my third eye and coaxes out a bolt of lightning made from a tesseract. I just want to know what it means to feel this way, and if this is a low or a high. And if I will ever feel any other way again. I don’t care, but they say that I got to.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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