This Black Box

This one is really old (and I suspect you will either know exactly what I'm talking about always, or it will sound like gibberish), but in the interest of getting new things up on this blog... (Also, if you want more to read, I might subtly point to my longer story...)

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This little Black Box is a little Black Hole;
it's dark as dark and cold as cold.
It sucks you in and you never want out;
it's dark as dark and cold as cold
but you can hide in the nooks of the tree's white folds
till the lights come out and you love
to see what you hate.

A strange kind of man lives in this funny little box,
with his hoods and his bards and bears and queer white maggots.
He makes this box a little black hole
that's dark as dark and cold as cold.
He makes you love to see what you hate,
to be happy because you're sad
with the music and dancing and laughs and screams;
it's strange as strange and free as free.

In this house of string with its roof of net
and the floating tables where birds go to die,
with the music of the 30s and 50s and now,
with buckets on our heads and masks of snow,
with the bodies of babies and the poodles of stone,
where we made a wastrel into a noble ass,
and fought and fell in love and laughed
and died, we all take our chance
to remind ourselves just who we are
as we lose ourselves for one last time,
then we take ourselves off and mourn our loss.

This little Black Box is a little Black Spot;
it's darker than dark and colder than cold
and with this strange kind of man we're left all alone.