New confessions have come to light,
let’s leave our sins on the dance floor.
Now’s the time for a crisp encore,
we’ll push aside feeling contrite.
Walk the line keep every groove tight,
the divine path you can’t ignore.
New confessions,
make the Devil pray and take flight.
Caught in a relapse once before,
wound up all but out of favor.
A heart pumping will make room for
new confessions.
Spain won the world cup yesterday, one to nil - but it was never close. Spain spent 70% of the game in Argentina’s backfield - pressuring.
Spain had nine respectable shots at a goal - scored one with another called back. Argentina had one shot that almost went in. I know losing when I see it - Argentina winning would have been a fluke.
Speaking of losing - Madonna at halftime.
A critic wrote that, "Madonna has come to represent America’s fear of aging."
Yeah, aging has never looked less appealing.
I may take up smoking.
I know, she recently had a single hit #1 on the Billboard charts.
Back when the Beatles were cranking out 24 #ones in a row, you had to sell a million records a week to crack the top ten, and 1.3 to 1.5 million a week to stand a chance at a #1. Today (with streaming) you can get a #1 with a 7th of that number.
I love early Madonna - but I know creepy when I see it.
Who’s older, Madonna or Trump?
Whatever, both are too old for their jobs.
.
.
A song for this:
Vogue by Madonna
Cruel and Pretty by Over the Rhine
She is tranquility enfolded in ambiguity,
symbolizing serenity before conception,
not idiosyncratic, but sympathetic stranger,
Mantis is the Celestial Madonna
as profound as a collapsing galaxy,
defining a figure of cosmic importance,
destined to create the celestial savior,
the most significant universal entity.
She is the selected medium of transformation,
where the new universe swirls,
weaving light and chlorophyll.
Born on the cradle of mother earth,
yet claimed by the emptiness of cosmos,
endowing her with the acumen of prophesy,
she walks on the footprints of silence,
steps following the shooting stars of the milky way
as her breath turns into a hymn of forgotten stars.
She is the epitome of spatial stillness
that stabilizes the existential storms,
for she knows the exact rhythm of sorrow,
and the precise cadence of delight,
steadying them on her palm.
The Avengers treat her as a teammate,
a martial artist, the green essence of change,
that feels the pulse of the extant universe,
spreads the inflection of prayers across the cosmos.
Oh, Mantis the Celestial Madonna,
with so many skills and psychic empathy,
I wonder if she will reach Nirvanna.
Has she truly fulfilled her destiny?
First as an Avenger, she battled threats
As a Guardian of the Galaxy,
she would later come to have some regrets.
Has she truly fulfilled her destiny?
Meant to birthe the Messiah of Space,
she mated with “plant” alien, Cotati.
But since her lovely son had fallen from grace,
has she truly fulfilled her destiny?
Sadly, Mantis would need to fight her son.
Now on a voyage of self-discovery,
she finds herself; that journey is not done.
Has she truly fulfilled her destiny?
She is perfect.
At least, that is what they say.
Talk, Walk, Speak, Breath
She must be perfect
But perfect acts as an illusion.
A mere child, raised among warriors,
must teach herself softness
the way others learn survival.
But before she even understood love,
someone handed her a prophecy
and called it her future.
Scolded into perfection,
she tried to be gentle, tried to be kind
but those actions are useless when the world
keeps asking for strength instead.
She tried to smile,
tried to imagine what her life would look like
if she'd been allowed to choose her own destiny.
A woman.
Not a symbol.
Not a paradox, not a doll, not their puppet.
And so, when the moment came,
and the stars opened up to her,
she welcomed it with open arms.
The Avengers, her light,
small but steady.
She finds her own courage,
takes it and blooms.
She is Mantis.
She is the Celestial Madonna.
And her future, is now in her own hands.
Children, today, we talk of history,
hoping to unravel the mystery
of girl named Mantis, an ancient prophecy,
and her enigmatic destiny.
She would be the Celestial Madonna,
enter the Cotati, who seek nirvana.
In comes Swordsman, prophecy achieved -
The Celestial Messiah is conceived.
Threats from Kree and Skrulls would cease,
and the Cotati would find peace.
This one is not the insect of the garden,
But the Grand mistress of the Priests of Pama,
Raised in the shadow of a Vietnamese temple
To become the pinnacle of a human soul.
She refers to herself as a shadow, a distant third,
"This one" moves with a grace that humbles gods,
Finding the pressure points of the Thunderer,
Felling Thor with a single, practiced strike to the nerve.
Her green skin is the mark of a cosmic union,
A spirit merged with the telepathic Cotati,
The sentient wood and plant-mind of the stars.
She is the bride of a legend’s hollow shell,
Marrying the spirit within the Swordsman’s body
Beneath the watchful eyes of Earth’s Mightiest.
A mother to the Messiah of the leaves,
She is a fragmented consciousness,
Scattered across the universe like seeds,
Representing the freak, the mystic, and the Avenger.
She does not merely feel the wind;
She senses the empathic vibrations of the biosphere.
A predator of fate who saw the coming of Thanos,
Mantis stands as a jagged saint in the cosmic cathedral,
The mother of everything that will one day grow.
She’s not me,
She doesn’t have my name.
Instant transformation,
but chic jeans just don’t fit.
It’s body chemistry,
my scent on her? Rancid.
Baby I’m a trademark,
that’s just an impostor.
I am the legacy.
I know that’s what she’s after.
Stop. There’s just no hustle.
Dad I’m a rich girl now,
mom you would be so proud.
They all want to be me.
Especially her. Don’t worry.
She’ll never be me.
Mom.. dad? You made the rules.
Family is my identity.
She doesn’t have my name.
She’s not me.
Over four decades I’ve made memories,
faithfully captured and held dear.
On my knees as a 10 year old begging,
‘Mom will you please take me to see her?’
So may tears and so many smiles
your music has always brought solace.
I’ve said it over and over, over and over..
( See what I did there?)
Lyrics that just won’t quit. The G.O.A.T.
Undisputed and she’ll defend her title.
Mastering the art of veni vidi vici
is what this icon was born to do.
She’s set the tone and created an outlet
for our feminine wiles to divinely explode.
I’ve said it over and over, over and over:
there is only one Queen of Pop.
From a plane to a venue screaming,
just to be in such legendary ubiety.
Been to eight tours and I’d do it again
over and over …
Madonna!!!
Long may she reign.
She walked down the isle in an eburnean dress
looking like a beautiful Madonna I must confess
her hair long as Rapunzel was braided in a tress
she walked and she talked like a Royal Empress
I sat there in a wooden pew solitary as a mouse
admiring her stature, she was marrying a louse
but money is what she needed, and a big house
I was no more than a little poor hungry grouse
Abasking in the infusion of her sun I was her host
lost inside an old church, just like the Holy Ghost
the preacher began to talk and I hid behind a post
counting my losses feeling small, and very lost...
She swayed, turning two lustrous eyes my way
waiting for me to speak, what I couldn't say
poor as a church mouse all I could say is nay
then she said no, and that really made my day.
What kind of Madonna are you?
Your silk is flesh,
your green slippers
are lily pads for the daughter of Venus.
What if I laid my head upon your lap
would you mother me,
or caress dormant passions into flame?
In Spain and Italy
they march you through
the narrow, cobbled streets.
bound to a pole and banners
as if you were a totem,
a painted and caged
icon
of their masculine salvation.
Will you save me my gypsy Madonna,
or will I rescue you?
I will take you upon a starry night,
to ride within a rolling caravan.
Heaven will wait for us,
as we, ravaged by body-prayers,
dawdle upon the way.
Shall we then be riddled through
by the threads of each other's needs,
this our hungering impulse
to be both the seed and the flowering?
Decades of pure fire
we are all your lucky stars;
Wanna be icons.
I remember getting into that groove,
hearing your voice on the radio;
Didn’t own a single album yet,
I played that track over and over;
Hearing your voice on the radio,
full on diva screaming ‘Rebel’;
Your rhythm was urban bold;
Didn’t own a single album yet;
I couldn’t get enough of your music,
so I bought a song for the first time;
I played that track over and over,
as I have done with every tune since;
Addicted to a hit for every emotion.
MADONNA
Doctor told ‘Congrats Ma’am. You are pregnant.
Your heart beats go fast rapid and vibrant.
News is really grand.
Go and tell your husband.
He will rejoice turning jubilant.’
Lady replied ’I am not married.
Then how this great grand news will be carried?’
‘Fine. Go to your lover.
He is a proud father.
Bright green signal, but not alarming red.’
‘I have no lover’. Lady had to sigh.
‘So what? At dawn break stare at Eastern Sky.
You need not to worry.
Don’t be sad or sorry.
Bethlehem star, you are sure to descry.’
03/14/23
A Strand Premiere No. 1198
Contest by Brian Strand
She sits, patiently,
And waits
Alone.
It seems so long
Since she held him close,
And now, he is so far away.
The telephone rings.
She jumps up.
Her heart begins to thump.
News of him? Yes.
Yet another delay.
But he will be back
One day soon.
Until then,
She must lie awake, alone
With memories of happy days gone by;
Dreams of those yet to come.
Yes. Someday soon
He will come back.
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