Wasted Words

WASTED WORDS 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.