My word this is awful. I guess I feel sort of bad, since it's supposed to be a tribute to Robert Mapplethorpe and evidently Patti was never able to read the words to it aloud until she started working with Kevin Shields, but then his gauzy soundscapes opened the doors to her heart and the words just poured forth like honey-drenche—wait, you know what? Fuck feeling bad about this cornball twaddle. All respect to an awesome photographer who died too early and everything, but it is physically impossible not to crack up when Patti keeps switching from overly emphatic poetry voice to wheezy Dylanesque talk-singing on lines like "LIGHT making him, LIGHT making him, LIGHT itself… in his eeeeeyyyyyeess, his greeeeeeen deeeeaaaar eeeeeeeeyyyes, like the eeeeeyes of a cokeheeeeaaaaaad… like a… [hissy stage whisper] mistress." Seriously, I just tried it again and the laugh redirected itself out my nose like one of those "quittin time" whistles.