Thursday, August 25, 2016
MOST MEN IN AMERICA
Outside my window
the raven beckons
to follow him again
as in that kingdom far away
in a time when hoods
of muslin saved our sight
from the diamond in his eye
that blazed like a thousand suns
And wasn't it you
who told me that love
is like a banana
you've got to peel away
the facade
And wasn't it you I saw
seething inside your skin
at the Metropolitan Opera
Grunting like a pig
when the fat lady sang
hooting from the balcony
like a Portuguese pimp
a break with tradition to be sure
running amok till they pinned you down
inside the ladies room
Tempest in a pisspot
And isn't that Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
sitting right over there
sucking on her
mint julep
trading tales of the good ol' days
when men were men
and women were horses
and giddyup ol' paint
was the prelude to a kiss
Her entourage
of the rouged and the wrinkled
hanging on her every word
well aware that most men in America
in this year of the locust
in this decade of the plague
would rather be sniffing
through the long abandoned ruins
of an old haunt
than to give up the ghost
to some baby-faced whore
And now my old friend the raven
has moved to Baltimore
where he works as a squeegee man
on certain odd numbered holidays
and plays the guitar
with Eric Clapton
and sometimes Charlie Byrd
while all the sweet young things chant
GO CAT GO!
GO CAT GO!
But well you know
the whole world's a stage
that you're going through
just to get to someplace else
and though they stomp and shout
for another encore
quoth the raven: Ain't no more!
It was a lively time
says Miz Chauncey Lee L'Amour
well aware that most men in America
take their pants off one leg at a time
all grist for a story of some kind
and you know dahling
you really should write it
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Ergo: Never more enter a ladies' room ... smiles. Love, cat.
ReplyDeleteI will not, unless I turn transgender, of course!
DeleteThank you for sharing this madness
ReplyDeleteThank you for referring to it as madness, Martin. I consider that high praise!
DeleteI wonder if it's the guitar or the ladies room, but in the year of the locust choices are few.
ReplyDeleteOh dahling, yes you really should have! LOL this is a trip thru the theatre of madness, indeed. Shall we now, having stripped ourselves of rouge and corset and puppet-strings, going out into the night with our acoustic guitars for an encore? Or rather, are we retiring to quieter haunts...finally off-stage..though players we do remain, evermore. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteYour comment is positively poetic, Stacie!
Deletethe whole world's a stage
ReplyDeletethat you're going through
just to get to someplace else.... ouch, it does feel that way
We're upon the stage, going through a stage...waiting for the stage to Yuma!
DeleteI would never forge the phrase "Tempest in a pisspot". Poetic madness. I love it.
ReplyDeleteIt is rather catchy if I do say so--lol
DeleteEntertainment at its finest, kiddo. Love the closing especially.
ReplyDeleteSo glad you enjoyed, Sherry!
DeleteThis is definitely one of my favourite of your poems, Tim. You work wonders with the stereotypes and the colloquial language, and the commentary is spot on.
ReplyDeleteMuch appreciated, Kerry. It was fun to write!
ReplyDeleteThese sections are awesome:
ReplyDelete"hooting from the balcony
like a Portuguese pimp"
"sitting right over there
sucking on her
mint julep"
"Her entourage
of the rouged and the wrinkled"
"in this year of the locust
in this decade of the plague"
"would rather be sniffing
through the long abandoned ruins
of an old haunt
than to give up the ghost
to some baby-faced whore" ... Ha. That's funny.
"But well you know
the whole world's a stage
that you're going through" ... Oh, that's clever. Is that a saying, or did you come up with that? I love it.
Yes, I came up with that, Elsa, but now maybe it will be a saying--lol. Loved seeing what turned you on here...apparently it was a lot. Thanks so much!
DeleteAh men...I have such a sweet one...no tempest in a piss pot, but I have met the male who wanted to lure me there. lol Love this!! Great work!
ReplyDelete