Killer Rack
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Killer Rack - Sylvan Spring
side a
Dear Kim Sasabone from the Vengaboys
Kindy teacher aside, you were my first
love. Which I guess makes it the purest,
because don’t we just collect jaded reasons not
to love as we go through our lives? I know
you’d understand, Kim Sasabone, because
when you sang boom boom boom boom I want
you in my room to spend the night together
from now until forever, I felt
it in my veins, your words unspooling and reaching out
for blood not yet coalesced and I know it takes a
very complex understanding of the nuances of
love to speak about it so simply, and you, sweet
Kim Sasabone, have seen pain
immeasurable, and still set
your course for Ibiza. I want to kiss the tender
skin of your forearms, for you to whisper the lyrics
of ‘24-7 in my 9-11’ – which, bizarrely, came
out in the year 2000 – over the frantic tides
of my heart, to bend from the sky in your enormous
platforms and deliver me to the lilt of a peace
that isn’t conditional. Pick me up in your
Wingroad five-door estate and play me
your unplugged #1s on the stereo as
we drive through rigid little towns that
will never know the embrace of you or
your greatest hits. Tell me the fragments
of your life you thought had fallen over
the edge. Tell me: do you long for the illegal
beach parties of the early days? When you and your
band broke up in 2002, I stood my stern seven-
year-old vigil on the steps of the school church
in full mourning garb, not knowing if
the Vengabus would ever ride again and steadily
losing faith in the kind of love that could
save me. My heart did not go shalala lala at any
hour of the day or night for at least a month.
But time is an unclenching fist and I had to do
algebra and the dishes and stay out of people’s
way or else, and it was easy to forget the sound
of your voice. In high school, I heard the band
was back together and you had an odd new single
that I think Pete Burns wrote, something
to do with Uranus?? Oh, did you feel
adrift on a childish and strangely
horny raft when all the others came back
with spouses and children?
Did you know that other people
wouldn’t fill you up but yearned for them
to try anyway? I still wish I could hold your head
in my hands and gently unpick the knots
in your hair and tell you there are things to be
afraid of, but I will always hold your pain as
if it were my own until you can pick it back up
again. Did you ever end up going to San Francisco?
Was it gross to watch adults
drink chardonnay from plastic cups and
grind on each other to ‘Up & Down’? Did you wish
you could retire to a little hamlet
with a library and some chickens?
I do.
I, too,
have been
trapped in festive torment, forced
to endlessly relive the words of my past.
But,
Kim,
we are both still here. The bus rattles on.
And happiness is just around the corner.
Hell is a teenage girl
or rather, hell was when I had to be one.
A fag walking around in girlsuit,
trying to pretend like I had any business
playing goal defence or touching boys’ necks
at school discos – a transplant among
the cluster of girls at the sleepover, tense
on my mattress on the floor, heart
violent with the knowledge
that someday I’d be discovered,
that today could very well be the day
that one girl, probably the meanest of them
(fucking Harriet), would spring from her sleeping bag
and screech with indignance as she pointed me out,
and the whole room and everyone in it would yell