Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.140.254.100
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem
Time To Cook the Rolls 

“Honey, turn on the oven to 350; the movie is starting!”

Soupy Sales is kicking back with June Taylor at Studio 50.
He is flirting with her leggy dancers as they feed 
A sniveling White Fang burnt popcorn and frankfurters,
From a very salty refreshment stand in Studio City, 
Under a cracked bleating Tiffany lamp, made of styrofoam,
Where dazed girls receive their first pressings of lip gloss;
They kiss and touch other crazies, as exploding rock ‘n roll music 
Alights the night like a torch, setting fire to the universe-
The dry gulches of shuttered churches and open conga grilles, 
Where young men sit alone, pondering Cadillacs and Fords,
With silver-streaked teeth and brass dicks seeking a carport.

“Come on honey…I love you! ... give me another chance…
It was just a one-time fling, a meaningless tumble in the dark.”

Elizabeth Taylor is in the Ford next to us looking bored and restless,
With saddle-shoes on a tassel, dangling like dead fish hanging,
From her angora mirror, as she eyes herself with desires and plans;
Mere conspiracies which hold no erect realizations in the offing,
Nor do they percolate at daybreak with burning cigarettes, and coffee
As nose-snorting hipster-kids slurp on straws made of plastic delights, 
Inside a crowded  bistro on 14th Street, adjacent the Village, with
Horny busboys working fast for tips coming from tourists with fat 
Wallets and bored dispositions, seeking autographs from the fools.
Broderick Crawford is looking chipper today; his open grave searching 
For a taco under the sun, a beer, and a Mexican woman to talk to.

“I hunt malicious criminals with my Buick Century, and a .45”

The rampant streets play symphonies of mindless violence,
With embalmed musicians tuning their instruments with knives,
Killing outright for oysters and craw daddies, hooked up to wires,
Sucking, licking, tip-toeing down shadowy hallways with them,  
Scantly-attired ghost girls spasming uncontrollably with loud squeals,
While gasping men with flailing arms seek a last terrifying breath,
Jostling inside their Cadillacs and Fords made of steel casings,
Assembled by the once-living, but now finding a prolonged sleep,
Under old tinkling chandeliers with cobwebs dangling, festering,
Like diseased worms looking for the relief of a masticating fish.

And now,
Glenn Ford is stumbling down the street again, 
Looking for his dead friends.

“Would somebody here kindly and mercifully inform him that
His rich and famous friends are all in a graveyard near Studio City,
Waving from grassy beds of worm meat, and liquid fertilizer?”

“Maybe it is time to cook the rolls, and watch the ending now.”
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required