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Lounging near sleep and lingering time
are Eliot, Dylan and I.
We discuss preposterously shaped women
and laugh ‘til our heads roll down
the stairs and onto the crumpled street,
past the sordid cafes and triple-X store
to the busy corner where fat men meet.
Barren, with the violet hour approaching,
my dear fellow Thomas remarks,
“Before murderous time makes fools of all
with whispers of immortality,
we must take refuge (or lest give up)
and shed this burdensome cloak, at last,
for the naked vision found in the cup.”
So we plunge into this purple place
and Eliot begins his quest.
While Dylan speaks of pale-faced men
in rectangular wooden suits
and black-veiled women who sing and moan.
Then right on cue the rattling sky
chimes in a thunderous tune unknown.
Meanwhile, in a sullen corner
lost in a sober wasteland,
metaphorically T. S. sits
shrouded by his darkness,
scorned and shamed by the burgeoning sky.
When a cleavage disguised as a barmaid puts out,
“...remember to focus on the how not the why.”
“What is this strange new beauty ?”, he asks,
as he gently strokes her tattoo.
She laconically spit direct in his ear
her storied life as a dancer
and infidelity rose in my pants,
much to my horror, too much to hold back,
when off goes Eliot into one of his rants.
But Dylan will have his dominion in here,
with a song he whipped up the crowd.
A Welsh tune he belted like a demon possessed,
with vile and wasted words,
but for noise violations he was carted to jail.
Eliot’s guilt was his rain-drenched voice
but Sir Thomas had found his Holy Grail.
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