It is just a tape

(I wrote this after watching David Lynch's Mulholland Drive - the scene from club Silencio)

"It is just a tape"
screams he the orchestrator
the puppeteer
the know-it-all
deriding. mocking.

both the producer
and the consumer

the capitalist that expropriates
slave labor
and the slave oh the slave...

she sings
oh she sings
standing on unsteady legs
a used up wretch
but oh the beauty

those haunting eyes
the mascara of spilled blood
that voice, deep and resonant
not from a tape
as you tell me
your deepest pains
as you're dragged through
the contraption
of that puppeteer's tape...

that knowledge

slides into me
like a knife slices butter (note: simile from Arundati Roy's God of Small Things)
as you fall you fall
and the music - the tape
looses all its allure

i weep silently
it is just a tape...