Long Brothels Poems
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Disembarkment hearkened a largely unknown universe
Melbourne's sky lifting grid hidden partially
Behind rows of giraffe laughing palm trees
He dinged his car in the line to leave the car park
Home now to brazen 20 year olds, brought both cars
Had booked accommodation in suburb 5 miles north
She was staggered by intensity of Tuesday morning city
Swarming people made beelines to their business day
Several close encounters with trams saw riled passengers
Drastic traffic presented fresh dilemma, stitched thick
Mounting queues in right turn lanes, a phenomena unfamiliar
Billboards blasted big messages, brothels among them
Heavy clusters of vehicles became the pair's detriment
Hives of continued light intersections caused separation
Having easy communication not possible without mobiles
Deviations from course happened dozens of times
Midday passed in a haze of befuddled frustration
Bemoaned youth of 2000 had no GPS to guide their ways!
Satiated by their eventual arrival at accommodation
Sun setting on a scary first day, unwittingly touring
Seventeen suburbs of mayhem monstrosity Melbourne!
For: All In A Day Poem Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
27th August 2020
Above a cloudy jar of brine
That floated greenish hard boiled eggs,
Beside a Schlitz beer waterfall
That told bar time (ten minutes fast),
A taxidermied Jack-A-Lope
With rabbit ears and tiny rack
Stared marble eyed into the dark.
“We don’t have many Jack-A-Lopes
Back home in any city bars,”
I told a man who served us drinks.
“At prices there, that’s no surprise.”
The barman said without a smile
And told us of the Jack-A-Lope:
Time was you looked, you’d find his kind,
But rarely in these mountain slopes.
They only bred in wintertime
And only in electric storms.
It’s rumored round that milk that came
From mother Jack-A-Lopes could cure
Whatever walks on twos or fours
So rare it was most called it myth
As much as Sasquatch ever was.
Until one day a dowser came
Divining where to dig a well.
And gripping his good witching stick
Could swear he saw the front branch twitch.
He scrunched his eyes and looked again.
“No, something’s in that undergrowth.”
Up popped the branchy antlers of
This fearsome critter, Jack-A-Lope.
Now as it was this dowser had
A more than common whiskey thirst.
And had to live his life downwind
From ordinary decent folk.
Like pictures of Napoleon,
He stuck his hand inside his coat,
Produced a flask of sour mash,
And threw it at this portmanteau.
Some say it hopped away afraid,
But those that know have winked and said,
“That animal attacked the flask;
Without their bourbon Jack-A-Lopes
Will fade away until they’re gone.”
Outsiders paid some license fees
For hunting season, dates of which
Cannot be found on calendars.
The most were poached as trophies for
Hotels, saloons and brothels where
The mounted heads amazed their guests.
No hunter had had an interest in
An animal that can’t be killed
Because it never ever was.
But now so heavy was the hunt
The Jack-A-Lope was soon extinct,
So every one of them was killed
To prove one time they did exist.
The bar grew quiet just as if
Some meaning might be understood.
I pointed at my empty glass
And asked the barman pouring drinks,
“What’s on that plaque below the head?”
“Some Latin words, a kind of crest.
A family motto more or less.”
Two scales must always be within an approximate range
for an accurate weight, and the close relationship
between the Humankind and God must withstand any change.
Solutions must be found before catastrophe approaches,
and if we were caught by surprise, we would regret the outcome;
less trees should be cut down to make room for buildings.
Thieves, murderers and rapists should be held in contempt
and thrown into dungeons...instead of giving them cosy cells,
the Law admits that's just to punish, but inhumane to torment.
Nightly streets have been taken over by muggers, drug dealers
and prostitutes, now called escorts, haven't changed their lewd attitude;
even madams of the brothels open doors for the well-dressed sirs.
Society has gone mad, and it has condoned both sexes of equal desires;
never was Sodom and Gomorrah as iniquitous and lustful as this one;
God forbid...I entered this city and be found guilty of their perversions!
While on the outskirts, in run-down homes poverty duplicates its horrible woes,
politicians' corrupt hands are not seen...pocketing money that Congress approved;
and the suffering of the poor is plagued by famines that turn into deadly diseases.
Crooked judges are manipulated by criminal defense lawyers who have handfuls of cash;
justice can never be served when criminals are given their parole, and the innocent,
humble men are detained and put behind bars, because of their limited wealth.
Proud hearts see neither simplicity nor beauty in anything that evolves into splendid light;
self-praise, greed, bluntness and invulnerability are the rules they live and swear by;
humbleness is unacceptable and insignificant...it's a virtue which diminishes their pride.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Said the devil,
Don't worry with that God side
too many rules.
Don't do this,
don't do that.
You can't eat this,
you can't eat that,
Steal and you go to jail.
Cheaters well you're definitely in trouble.
Whoo-hou
you're going into the hell fiya.
Well look here,
don't worry about all that stuff.
Down here,
we have bars with the hottest drinks you can think of.
I mean booze so plentiful you'll be walking on fire.
Tanning salons, oh-wee real hot,
you can fry yourself down here, get all sorts of color.
Brothels to feast your eyes and choose.
I mean what more can you ask for?
Just come join me.
any regrets well fix you up with something even hotter.
© Al. Juman The "said" Poet 1/20/1985
Idlers, paved paths with active energies, purloining, feigning amity.
Dodgy & concealing past immoral dregs by comradely, waspish mien.
Obdurately empowered by this stranger plucked from their nocturnal fantasies
Wanton mistresses of countless broken walls in desperation for time.
Unbridled intrusion cloaked in religiosity vexed by undefined arrogance.
Oft, in pretext, manipulating, with energies stronger than the POPE.
Habits of a thuggish intervention foist on bewitched “soul tie”
Ill-beseeming nuances summoning this Stygian to their unsealed brothels
Obvious cliquish vindictive venom of a barrage of past bed felon.
Zestfully compelling, violently intrusive and surreptitiously preying.
Ending the farce, Rapscallion oozing countless entries on the rotten hole.
My poor mother "La Daniela"
As they called her at the Casa de los Picos
In the capital of Segovia
Where mothers and children took refuge
In the fratricidal war in Spain
While their husbands were
In the war between rocks
Bunkers and trenches
In the Guadarrama mountain range
Particularly in its port
Where at the foot of the lion monument
Placed in the center of the road
Symbolizing royal power
And its strategic value
For the defense of Madrid
Between the two sides
And its connection between Madrid and Castile
The nationalists and republicans met
To arrange, during their breaks from war
On weekends
Going down to the brothels of the capital
To have sex with fascists or militiawomen
Drawing lots to see who would be saved
In the war, once again, on Mondays, begun
While the women suffered and cried
To try to get ahead to her children
While her men fought "to the death."
"La Daniela" with five daughters no less
She had no help but that of the King of Heaven
"Who gave her health and protection"
As she herself said
And confidence in seeing her husband arrive victorious
From the Cabeza Lijar lookout
Having prepared his carnal furrow of love
For his long-awaited plow
Confidant that it was true that he was a saint
One of the few who hadn't come down to Madrid
To let off steam with the street-walking whores.
One day, when "La Daniela" and her daughters
Along with other women and children
Were near the chapel of El Carmen
In San Rafael, Segovia
Praying to the Virgin
That her husband would arrive safe and sound
She saw herself weeping with joy
Seeing her husband mounted on his horse
Tired, but happy, victorious.
She signaled to him, called him.
The hermitage bells ringing
The town was all excited
She and her daughters running to congratulate him
Promising him that today he would have his field
Open to all his passion of love
Although to his fellow women
He would have commented:
-That, because of my husband
My was like a cigarette paper
Still suffering well and a beauty
To Daniel, my love.
Absurdity walked this path of a whorish lane,
Dauntingly decked in a dark seductive garb
Egregiously seeks the thrones by craftiness,
Nebulous transverse for the wayfaring man.
Illusions of a well worn thigh concealed with facial mascara.
Killjoy bipolar nagging for control, demanding dominance by demonic antics,
Eccentric public commodity makes it the brothels for quickie.
Acrimony well taught from the market square by “Iyaloja”
Damaging defiance conscripting father to “garri Ijebu” and Fish
Egomania derailed from home and deprived of morals,
Sagged and perforated lurid frame perfumed for a prey
Offensive forlorn factious feigned facades
Lacklustre and noxious mien seduced the prey by lewd bait,
Absurd Incentive the goal, merchandise of greed, A week of affiance.
Pinhead Lizard
Ever since he was a young boy
He played with balls of fire
From church halls to Soho brothels
He must have had them all
Aint seen nothing like this pinhead
In any amusement hall
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean ol shtick
He weeps at mother Mary’s feet
Becomes part of the molesting dream
Feeling proud at his insulting whit
This Pinhead lizard
Sure is a wee wee twit
The gods looks down in smite and anger
That deaf, dumb and dumber kid
Sure plays a mean mean shtick
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean twist
How do you think he justifies
God sure hasn’t got a clue
What makes him an evil lizard?
Should have made him into a shoe
Aint got no education
Can’t bear the voices of reason
Don’t see no lights bulbs in that ones head
Makes no sense, but tosses insults like stale bread
He thought he was the charmer
He’s just a pinhead lizard with no crown
Ever since he was young boy
That lizard never grew up
He defames Jesus and preaches
Are all the lizards this lame?
He has his flip flop slippers
No wonder he always falls
Never failing to de-fame
He’s a pinhead lizard
Maybe he’s drunk and very pissed
That pinhead lizard sure has a mean mean twist
Written Sep 14, 2001 Parody on the song Pinball Wizard and a video game at the time!
He preached a pious excrement like any other politician.
Her smut seemed poetic until she took her knickers off.
Her light burned all night, but her heart was always dark.
His evil odiousness soon ran out of gas, but never his bowels.
Nothing is sacred if dog poop and daffodils are not.
There is more sexuality in one word than in ten brothels.
His reality was a bad dream and we all lived in his mind.
Seraphic activists will hunt you down with a righteous frown.
If you are a jerk
then the order of holy men, is your sacred calling.
Dorothea, put that sacrificial knife down!
I am always alone in a crowd, fortunately.
Of all the minin' camps in old Colorady, the town of Tin Cup was truly,
With all its gamblin' halls, brothels and sleazy saloons the most unruly!
'Tis said that Jim Taylor dipped his tin cup in the 'crick' to take a sip,
And found gold in the bottom of his cup even before liftin' it to his lip!
The rush was on and in 1880 the rowdy town of Virginia City sprung up!
In 1882, assorted drunks and ne'er-do-wells insisted on namin' it Tin Cup!
Stakes were claimed, shovels flew and ore was packed out to railheads.
Men who worked in 'ore houses' were the butt of jokes by facetious heads!
By 1881 there were 6000 denizens and over twenty saloons in the town.
Gamblers met at Frenchy's Place and they controlled ever'thing aroun'!
Marshals were told, "see, hear and do nothin' or yer first arrest will be yer last!"
One quit, two were fired, three were shot, one went insane leavin' the town aghast!
For those who died gloriously or otherwise from flamin' guns and billowin' smoke,
Boot Hill Cemetery was established south of town to plant many a hapless bloke!
Raucous prospectors spent their 'dust' on booze and 'soiled doves' in their cribs.
Others got uproariously drunk and awoke with busted heads and shattered ribs!
In its heyday, Tin Cup produced millions of dollars in choice Rocky Mountain gold.
The last mine, the Gold Cup, closed in 1917 spellin' disaster and the town did fold.
Alas, today 'tis a ghost town with curious tourists and sagebrush driftin' about.
The ripplin' streams teem, not with gold nuggets, but with fightin' rainbow trout!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
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