Two tiny angels on my shoulders. One on left and one on right. They speak good and they speak ill. Dressed in red and dressed in white. Robes and halos, horns and pitchforks; interchangeable. Often times it’s three or four, five or six little angels dancing, dancing on my shoulders, whispering, whispering in my ears. They are burdens, all these voices whispering, yelling into my head. Little angels that do not advise or guide, they just argue, shout and laugh.
Its become a boon. A boon to my confusion and my chaos. Little angel voices mixing with the voices in my head. Their greatest ruse is to change faces, they switch faces. Differing characters they become, I look left and I look right, changing faces. Faces of the famous, faces of the past, faces of the now.
The face of Marx is on my left and then it’s Churchill; I prefer Hemingway on my right and later Owen Wilson, he makes me laugh. Poe, Pele and Picasso, Julius Caesar, Ghengis Khan and Richard with a lion’s heart. Joan of Arc with words of bravery, Amelia Earhart tells me I should fly, take a risk and die young. Santana never speaks, only plays and plays on that guitar, he makes it cry. The faces switch and switch some more; confusion. Bolivar still cries for freedom, Che leads revolutions in my head, Darwin teaches me new evolutions, because the other was a lie. All these little angels whispering, whispering in my ears. The Beatles sing, Eminem raps, they switch to Don Quixote and Pancho Villa. Margaret Thatcher, Andrew Jackson, Emily Dickinson, and Cleopatra’s sultry tones.
All confusion, all chaotic whisperings in my ears. The list goes on and on; never ending. Who is right and who is wrong? Who wears white and who wears horns? They jump and dance, sing and chant, little angels, tiny burdens of chaos in ever growing numbers on my shoulders; weak.