The Fate of Rosie BlueRain

Peacocks and umbrellas, the ghosts of antelopes, they howl when Rosie speaks
Of streetcar soldiers, clocks, and Neptune's fires piled on empty streets.
Lord, I’m cold tonight in Rosie BlueRain’s chamber, where the black gloves search for leaks,
And the moonglow sucks the hollow milk. Like silk, her Mastermind wraps chains around my feet.

Allah! My head! She cries while Rosie sleeps.
And the fate of Rosie BlueRain is all I have left to keep.

Below the Savior’s shadow hangs the sacred blonde on blonde, giving himself away.
He was never once taught how to get what he wants, so now he’s living from day to day.
Rosie’s in the pool room cooking up slavery, 'cause it keeps her demons at bay
With tortured threats of savage bricks that walled her into Fortune’s game.

Allah! My tongue! She tastes like swallowed gauze,
And the fate of Rosie BlueRain tears at me with claws.

Down in the cornfield, used cars go to seed as junkmen dig for gold.
And Fortune’s agents nail me to the Earth when I start to feeling old.
And a white fog settles down like Spanish sailing ships, and blankets all the folds
Of skin that stretch across the coastal highway speeding through the cold.

Allah! I’m tight! And I just can't explain
Why the fate of Rosie BlueRain lays drowning in the rain.

On the beach, the seagull struts his hourglasses filled with Rosie's sand.
And waves like stomachs bursting full of sharks, they pound like rock and roll bands.
And you wish you weren't like this, the way you've come to be, as Rosie wraps her hands
Around divining rods that point to Persia’s distant fertile lands.

Allah! I’m cold! Your arms no longer reach
The fate of Rosie BlueRain laying gutted on the beach.

When the Seventh Seal began to break, your emerald child lay tired.
You said, "Go be wasted on the hill, where the diamonds thieves and the liars
"Throw babies' bodies in the mouths of stone cathedral cellars,
"And witches feast on siren songs sold to discreet private buyers."

Allah! I’m wasted! They've bought and sold her soul.
And the fate of Rosie BlueRain lays buried in a hole.

Their machines are strong, their minds are blazing bullets blasting cellophane dolls.
We can hear the soft explosions in the distance. Like alleycats they call
To feathered ladies dancing on the stage, waiting for the stage to fall
As Christian undertakers click down flowered halls and nail her body to the wall.

Allah! These dreams! I won’t let them fade away.
And the fate of Rosie BlueRain is buried in my brain.

Copyright 2006 NADJA MUSIC Reinaldo García
December 1973 Hollywood, CA

Mecca

In December 1973, while living with my Gurdjieff group in a Greene & Greene Hollywood mansion on Briarcliff Road, gazing out my third story window at the twilit winter smog, I was convinced western civilization was doomed. The sister of my then-girlfriend (who later bore our daughter Theresa) had just changed her name to Rosie BlueRain, so I appropriated the trendy moniker and imagined The End of the World. Decades later, I realized all the sorrow of the song was unconsciously directed at my mother, crippled by her inability to function in the world. Indeed, I originally began the refrain “O, Mama,” in the spirit of Dylan’s Memphis Blues Again. But it felt false to me, and during my three week, late 70s Idries Shah-inspired stint as a “Muslim,” I altered the lyric to “Allah!”

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