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new poem : eurydice hitchhikes to vegas

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  • clone347@aol.com
    Title : eurydice hitchhikes to vegas Author : darkstar Email : clone347@aol.com Codes : R/L, angst (tell me you didn t see that one coming a mile off)
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 8, 2001
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      Title : eurydice hitchhikes to vegas
      Author : darkstar
      Email : clone347@...
      Codes : R/L, angst (tell me you didn't see that one coming a mile off)
      Distribution : anywhere, only drop me a line so I can visit :)
      Disclaimer : not mine. don't sue.

      Author's Notes : There is utterly no excuse for this beyond the fact that I
      just saw the Matrix and have the mental equivalent of a caffeine buzz. Well,
      yes, I did want to compare Rogue and Logan to my Number One Favorite Myth but
      that is irrelevant.
      Blame it all on Keanu ;P There is no spoon.


      Background Notes: In legend, Orpheus and Eurydice were lovers tragically
      separated when Eurydice died after being bitten by a viper on their wedding
      day. Orpheus so moved Hades with his grief that he was granted permission to
      retrieve Eurydice from the underworld-- on the condition that he did not look
      at her until they had reached the mortal world again. Orpheus kept this
      bargain until they were at the very mouth of hell, when he looked back after
      she stumbled. She was pulled from him by an irresistible force and dragged
      back into the underworld. Orpheus lived in grief until he was murdered by a
      group of women called the Maenads.

      Summary: Rogue comes back from a dark place to find that all is not as she
      left it,
      and strikes out on her own.

      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
      eurydice hitchhikes to vegas (1/1)
      rogue point of view

      darkstar
      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

      Alright, Zeus, I'll bet you're laughing your toga off at the
      irony. To escape hell and end up...here, not so far
      from where it all began--
      the dusty clouds still heaped in piles of unbleached muslin
      above the miles and miles of hot asphalt shimmering
      in heat and the miasma of burnt rubber, sweat, and
      buzzards.
      the rusted gas station sign promising
      ice cold root beer and (still)
      lying through its teeth.
      Of course there is no traffic, not at this time of day.
      Some things never change, unlike myself,
      who am an altered state thanks to your idea of
      romantic tragedy.
      Have you even visited the underworld lately?
      It's gone downhill.
      Forget regal death and eternal power over souls, it's just a
      nusiance: overcrowded, smelling of mildewed socks and
      absolutely without a place to plug in a hairdryer.
      And the things a girl had to do for a razor. Unbelievable.
      No wonder I decided to leave, although
      it wasn't without its lessons:

      1. beware of snakes. ug.
      2. never send a man to do a woman's job.

      Inevitably, they will fumble directions and we'll end up
      more lost than before. Still, he tried,
      I'll give him credit for that,
      and I suppose at one time it really was
      love.
      (One can never tell in these myths. Everything is
      supposedly agape when we all know half of it's
      eros.
      Don't you feign ignorance on me,
      Mister I Fathered Demi-gods With Every Blond In Athens.)
      What's that you say?
      Oh yes, I know, he ended badly. I sw the newspaper
      back in Nashville-- murder, bloody, but then,
      it would have to be to take him down. I suspect it was
      suicide by proxy. Probably got the top spot on the news.
      I'll bet your Regalness loved that one.
      Don't look at me like that.
      What, am I supposed to mourn? Stab myself like
      a stuck pig like that bimbo Dido? Please.
      I've wept and wailed and gnashed teeth enough to last
      an eternity and to be frank,
      I have nothing left.

      So here I am, Dr. Thunderbolt,
      and no, I'm not saying you're number one,
      I'm giving you the finger. Lay off the ambrosia, hello...
      Laugh all you want, go ahead, comment on
      the crooked lettering on my sign
      (vegas or bust)
      the ridiculous denim shorts that show the
      bristles on my legs, the
      sweat stains under my arms. Laugh. Go on.

      I'll be watching your back.
      I'll be the eyes in stone statues, I'll be
      the showgirl who smiles brighter than the lights
      and when you're blinded, sugah
      you can expect a knife in the back.











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