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letra de aphro the rob - marsy mars

verse 1-
i said “you’re cute,” on impulse
she said “your face makes me wish
that i could sculpt”
tri-lingual flirtation
without deliberation, my mind to hers
as the moon began the earth to stalk
“tell me your tale as we walk”, i said
“you don’t understand what you’re asking me to do,”
she said nonetheless free of hesitation;
the warning aborned for me
“are you sick of telling it?” i inquired
her eyes slipped to mine’s orbit
“no, but you may be sick in the telling.”
i thought there was room enough beneath
her self-possession for our mutual protection;
just how dire can one’s story be?
there was something if not demonic there
in her aspect then something which had survived
the devil’s company; her scent emanated with such
sweetness suggesting that here was a sweetness
to have been appallingly tested. tested
but by no seeming means bested
we danced around for a time
playing coltrane and dolphy of the wits
but with every small world lost, i’m sure
she saw that bigger request fulminating at my lips
fear, desire, anxiety and sympathy: i did not
know what emotion to most stockpile behind my eyes
but she took pity on my curiosity, and began, like this:
verse 2-
“go back far enough in the history of my house
you find my ancestor with marble knife sculpting the nike;
at aged 5, on the columbo in my first pair
i got a ticket to see the world from a man who played there
i don’t know why, but i didn’t cry, when even to
the cyclade sunlight my hair was tied around to make me blind
for ten years, or something thereabouts
i returned no closer to my parents than the light of their dreams;
my locks, dark and fair, cut; erasing all air
of a girl who might be playing with the doll those locks now wear
their matryoshka lady gazed into my eyes
“you’ve been sold” she sighed, to my heart blood-dry:
“aphrodite koritsi” became “aphro the rob”
aged 5 i left home, aged 5 i got my first job
and if i worked not, i’d be kicked, given no dinner plate
but seeing the girls the men loved, i preferred their hate”

chorus-
when i was but a hungry child
each sleepless night would i whistle out this haunting tune
nameless in my youth, now i’ve seen that it be baptised “the theme of the fate changing blues”
did i allow myself be saved?
or did fate that single path pave?
fate, how i hate you
you poor stereotype of a workman
verse 3-
“so yes, i guess ambition makes you look pretty ugly
a doll wanting nothing more than to fight her doll’s condition
and to my gnashing, thinking resistance they found its only interposition:
they gave me family again
greek at birth, then bosni, then belgian at eleven
the ‘daughter’ pathetic, adopted, abetted, and deadened
by love given two children, by slavery their third, and there
i did see evil and insanity made up elegantly to respect
unchained, touched and petted as i was blessed by adolescence
every moment until then i prayed for the last with my next breath-
do not wince, it cannot hurt
this pain too familiar
i spited them even as i was violated, educating myself
of their home library whose worth was to be bought
untouched by the two-part sonneillon or their children
i read and read, this defiled queen her inner kingdom building
from her own bones made her bling; but when i
no longer could keep my dying of mind belted
my tears became my secret’s vehicle, before a teacher
of course, this convict of their guilt endured
the disbelief that was her witch’s wood
and that “don’t leave me!” i called to the unfierce good
i hate now as only one who once loved so deep ever could”

verse 4-
“they loved me, my teachers
but not love only can save you
i was saved not by those love songs
blasted on board as i was ferried again the med along
again i broke my prison for a prison
clawing up an abyss that would make milton proud
and make milton shake; yet the shake i drank
and made the broke ground quake in its african sun bake
i was the moral caveat of a sahelian diplomat, by he gripped
til i was liberated by the childhood of egypt
two years thin, of those fifteen thick, i returned
to thessalonik surely god’s most favoured trick
oh mama, oh papa!
oh mama, oh papa!
i am a woman of many endings
and the ending so much the worst:
to know how fouled i am
while this sits unknown to the unversed
i’m in the underworld as i’m on earth;
every tree, building, man and child
reflects down in the level of the sea
that is the world; two at once, now, to me.”
so tested was my compassion in task
this monument of temperance before my empathy
i could only move to ask “what are you now?
and for letting you be so, what are we?”
she said, “i guess i am an artist; deadened by providence
i work to free the spirit from the matter of me.”
she has undressed me: my spirit wails
naked of its chain mail
before her eyes thanked my ear i believed
against such darkness i could only fail, until
for the first time, with iris untilled
and quiet, she smiled and sailed the words
“now apply your lips
and tell me your tale.”

- marsy mars

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