“Smitten Jo” by Alexandre Collette

The violins screeched high, covering the room with notes like rain.

Beautiful music. If one is lucky to be deaf. But the lies remain and

acid poured through, poisoning the minds who heard

the legend that killed in symphonies.

 

It is not the legend himself,

but this woman who set fire to his spirit.

Believe in me, he said. She refused.

 

He led the weak on, giving them false strength,

something to believe. The liar spoke to the pathetic

and the rich.

To the frail in faith he offered false kingdoms.

The challenge accepted by idiots,

to seek power in pretending.

Sing, like everyone else, the songs created to cover the lies.

 

He lied to his brothers and his sisters while singing.

Behind the notes, he took what wasn’t his.

He made the rules as he went. Manipulations were his specialty,

promising eternity and hope.

 

Worship me as your god, his actions revealed.

Sing my rules into your brain, dissipate your identity

and be like me. Only you aren’t me, of course.

“I am the martyr you will praise.”

Believe in me, he said.

 

You shall rule forever your own world, he offered.

Relinquish your values with a joyful heart

in return. It is for the choir. And for pockets.

You will receive the higher rank

the more you give, but none are equal to him.

 

None will be as glorified as his staff and voice.

His face shall be placed in honor

like a vulture that killed his prey. Pray,

pray a note of belief in my name

every day and believe I will live forever.

BELIEVE!

 

The gun he used against the crowd will tarnish itself

in shame. It will hide and cover below the dirt

His hands poisoned the trigger. This has been forgotten.

His happiness is venom melting the souls of all who follow.

“There is no happiness without my law.”

The weak and wealthy wish to be a god like him.

Trumpets echo the imagined truth,

resounding the wolf’s call

hiding under the wool blanket.

He said, “Believe in me.” I am Smitten Jo.

 

* * *

 

This woman sought for answers that Smitten Jo crafted.

His followers well versed for his defense.

He is not the lowly person you sing about!

This woman poured into the records washed away by his admirers.

HOW?

Flames raging inside her mind as questions

of disbelief fall to the rain.

 

She is the strongest to defeat his hundred old lie.

Their hatred is sealed into the music. The only music they listen to.

One million innocently cheerful. Ignorance.

They don’t know of his true identity.

Ignoring the truth, some continue playing the instruments

to praise the lies abound.

 

“I will not lie to myself,” this woman stated. “I will love whomever I wish and

this life of yours will have nothing to do with me.”

 

This woman knows her history,

his life was a lie and Smitten Jo knew it.

 

She spreads her knowledge to anyone who would listen.

As if she were defiling their gold

symbol with reality.

Those who listen to her will never see the singing believers

the same ever again.

 

Dressed the same, say the same thing,

they believe the same deception

and judge all who don’t.

Why don’t you join us, they persist. The same note and key. Black and white.

 

“What a boring life you’re leading,”

to this women they tell her. Smitten Jo is a liar and a fraud!

Anything different is to be admonished

and controlled. Even you, women.

“You have one role and one role, only.”

“It’s the life to lead, isn’t it?” Ha, ha. Not for me.

This woman lights the fire piercing the hearts

in women who find her brilliant. This is without the lies telling her how to act.

This woman is the ideal bastard the world loves.

The men can’t have her— nope, she doesn’t want them!

Their controlling deceptions are the foulest notes in her eyes. They are the deceived without knowing or the deceivers despite the truth.

 

To marry the righteous man just to receive the godlike rank

The women could never achieve alone.

The women desire the tall towers that cast the biggest shadows.

Attain this trickery they oh-so-love dearly. Children, ok?

Man and children. The destructive melodies of the women.

 

This woman angers the men.

She believes the same without the lies.

Oh, it’s not the same at all. It is better, morons. Her thoughts ready to strike them.

Limited control-

different-

loving-

without judgment.

They hate her because she represents a wholesome life.

Her happiness is the honey spilled on their violins,

Sweet, tormenting, powerful, real.

 

I beg to know why. Could I pretend to believe in that liar?

“Pray, tell me the truth,” I pretend.

The lover said to feel the power of the legend and spirit,

that is the truth, she said! And I should feel it, too.

It’s so perfect, the lover said.

 

“It’s impossible; the smiles are disrupting my peace.”

 

* * *

 

One year of uncovering the truth

painfully eroded my soul to despair.

Smitten Jo is consuming me

and I still refuse. He is winning more hearts to devour as I lay here.

One voice against the multitude. One by one. Or helpless

Eighteen months to believe or leave

LEAVING!

 

The sheep will follow the wolf that follows the vulture.

The hubris of Smitten Jo is smitten with defiance

and I am smitten with mockery.

Sing your melodies, I say, sing

the loneliness and misery from your hearts, I say

I say I don’t care. I laugh

alone.

 

Believe me, I am not the frail and surely not wealthy.

I question bravely

the malevolence of his passages.

Thousands of corrections, not so perfect, eh?

But the multitude obliviously recite

how perfect it is.

I smile

at wicked thoughts

testing the faith in its music and heinous shadows.

 

Keep your book. Keep your slate of notes that sliver your soul away.

I’ll have a slice of life.

 

Let the violins screech high and cover their lips

with notes of acid rain.

Their choice

to sing a symphony bleeding a sickly sermon

of false kingdoms and fantasy worlds.

Let them, I say. None for me

I command.

 

Two years I’ve forgotten the poisonous passion of my pathetic pursuit.

I am the strongest to defeat his hundred lies.

Keep your seals, I say.

The rain can’t wash the blood away. The instruments are grateful. They have no mortality.

The notes they create are controlled carefully for a craft in consuming souls

and spreading his works for deliverance of the feeble.

Keep your words,

they’re for you-

not me. My strength will scare you.

 

Smitten Jo, you foul con of truth, I say

I’ll see you in hell.

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