Monologue From Goddamn

Goddamn but I hated Sunday morning. Wakin’ up to the constant cursin’ and fightin’ of mother and father in the bedroom behind mine, gettin’ ready in their nice, neat freshly ironed clothes; as if that were enough to hide the plain of sins that abided within them. I’d turn over and turn up Duke Ellington until every note he bent on that there piano was just absolutely screamin’, and I’d bury myself deeper into the pillow to escape the voluminous life about me; but the walls were thin in our old place, and it wouldn’t be long before father come bustin’ through my door and lay his dirty ole’ bastard hands on me, and keep on keepin’ on till I was raw and blistered, and screamin’ just like Duke’s piano from the beatin’ he gave me. And then I’d too, get on my nice, lovingly tailored suit. The suit was blue, sharp lookin’ and well fitted, exactly the sort of thing that a woman would pick out for her man, and it was even the sort of somethin’ that’d make her a bit nervous too.
Hell, I could see why a person would’ve thought all their sins abolished after steppin’ into
Luminous beads of sweat loosened themselves from his body like beer on hot summer days, and he kept lifting that song of his higher and higher, meltin’, absolutely meltin’ in his old-fashioned suit, his heels beatin’ the floor, and then he cried