Long Nightclubs Poems
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Ebony thoughts of misery paint my soul
from her silent brush of leaving
and led me on a road of disrepair
where I live each lonely night
opening and closing doors of nightclubs and bars
in long empty nights of escape
from the constant drizzle of pain
with continuous small glasses of liquor
hey bartender! how about another round
the pungent scent of sweat fills the air
from bodies in motion, I can not see or hear
so I leave
and walk between the doors silent and confused
the streets are a dark lonely world of shades and shadows
melting into a black emptiness lined with broken streetlights
with no way out of my realm of madness
each time my palm feels the cool glass of a door
that reads welcome, twenty-one and over
I laugh inside from the irony
with no will to stop
each step, each night, leads to a door
where I drown in sorrow
trapped in the music of my life
Within the tight corsets
and high collars we remain faucets
that the portraits display
at the exhibition for today
though young men among us
cross home plate to the wild cheers and fuss
about their food between
sausage and in Louisiana cuisine
many folks are simply
not full partners in this industry
asking loose boundedness
before a genuine catcher audience
Among those who still read
who still cannot descend through one head
may not be slow to show
how newspaper reading has dropped low
beyond adroit and breast
beyond legal orders and the rest
as part ensuring art
I have disturbed that established heart
like nightclubs without beer
family without funeral or bier
but single band to grow
among different hues agreed with woe
In this developed place
reduced to a formula or face
the body of the pain
from the public to the private vain
I respond to my life
with ethos driving from kitchen knife
its two patterns are fussed
but each module is unfairly just
in the klein house I gwine
laid dry in salt rather than in brine klein
I overcome with grief
because going now I would as lief
the 1950 housewife wears her best dress to clean
and pearls from Hawaii with a slick dazzling sheen.
In her polished high heel shoes, she prances in the kitchen.
Making food for her family without help and never ’n.
The 1950’s housewife cleans and vacuums with delight.
If there are any messes, she keeps them hidden from our sight.
She is gloriously giddy to spend her day mopping and scrubbing a sink.
In the evenings she goes to nightclubs wearing diamonds and her mink.
The 1950’s housewife never complains a bit about her marvelous life.
So eager and thrilled to be called Tony, Larry or Dickie’s little wife.
Anticipating her husband’s needs, putting them in front of her own each day.
If you cannot find the 1950’s housewife, perhaps she has run away.
I only worship at my own altar
I do not even go to nightclubs
I do not even know the Kaaba
Or kneel for a word of prayer
Not even a chant in the stadium
I do not even like talking to others
When I do
It always comes back to me, Karma
I feel stressed to see a banker
Its even worse with doctors
Unless I am dying, Nirvana
and my lips are all chapped
That's when I call for mother
To heal me rebirth me
Madonna, Miracle worker
What kind of man? I wonder
But my poems are a way to reach ya
Hold your hand, touch ya
Share myself, appreciate ya
Show my dirt, entertain ya
Heal your heart, medicate ya
Share my thoughts, Liberate ya
Make you like me, Imitate ya
It is always with love, I seduce ya
And when your are lost, Calibrate ya
So without going Further
I do this for you with care
If you find it in you return a favour
For an Antisocial Humanitarian
You can’t. You don’t. You won’t. You dare?
If you really knew me, you would not have asked.
You would have known but I am a chameleon.
What you see is my demure, discreet, sedate side.
The one I bring to work; not the one I live in nightclubs.
Of course I am kidding! I titter, and we both laugh.
She laughs, relieved, because the thought of a wild me
is too weird for her dendrite field to fully handle.
I laugh because at a primal, guttural, ugly, selfish level, I am a secret.
Taking my true self out on weekends, daring Mr. Goodbar to get me.
She gives me a hug. Says something bane, boring, prim, prissy, ugly-normal.
My evil, devil-may-care, raunchy risk-taking side smirks, making fun of her for that.
Not sure when it started at 6 staying
out of a brutally violent household
taking to the unforgiving streets.
The streets became my teacher and
family albeit dangerous life lessons
learned from a merciless source.
Spiritual and corporal sorrow from father’s
beatings, his cruel degradation too much to
bear, as everyone stood by watching me bleed.
At 13, befriending teens from troubled homes, drugs
numbing the pain, leading to ingestion to dangerous
narcotics, a perilous escape, always got away.
Running the streets with pretty young broken girls;
Waving down guy’s cars, thrill seeking, I guess,
our risky behaviors always abetting trouble.
Working excessive overtime as legal secretary on
subways late nights, sexually assaulted, threats
shouted by strangers, incessant danger lingers.
Hanging out in nightclubs, as a melancholic outcast
dating depraved men with no regard for human life,
defeated, unable to break free, bound by fear.
Running like a wounded animal, steel trap rapt around me
as I bleed out, while others transgress moral law by
feverishly striking me down; an already wounded soul.
Years of starving myself, must stay pretty to
Keep up façade for the ruthlessly judgmental.
Never intentionally, but perhaps subconsciously
continuing in this path of inevitable destruction.
Today, realizing my son needs me more than ever, as he
suffers anguish from life’s severity against the meek,
imploring God save me so I can be his ardent advocate.
I plead to GOD for protection of my soft-hearted son,
when I leave this tortured life that devastated my
spirit. I pray for mercy In Silence!
It is October 2145 and the night scene is in full swing.
All buildings that used to house offices now house nightclubs.
Also known as dayclubs now, because people have a lot more time.
Time to pursue hobbies and interests, time to do exciting fun things.
When my grandparents were young buildings were for working.
Many people had to be in their cubicles from eight to five, making a living.
People work from their houses, huts, boats, treehouses and berms now.
Our work day is now four hours, the rest of our day is for family.
I have heard rumors that people used to carry guns and kill each other.
We do not have any of that now. People are not frustrated or angry.
Government requires brain conversion therapy that takes care of this.
We have a health care program that works for everyone.
Mental illnesses are passe’ now also; something we have heard about.
But frankly, we have never seen it. It simply does not happen now.
It is October 2145 and people are happy. We each have a dog or a cat.
Some have both; it is a requirement, mandated by the government.
So that we stay upbeat and optimistic, which we do.
you have left me behind
I, who have nothing
who am nothing
who will never be more than me
You are taking her to nightclubs
To fancy restaurants
Paying for elaborate meals
I, who have meatloaf and homegrown vegetables, am left behind…..
You are living it up in the city
You who have forgotten how much you love the country
You are transforming into her toy, her play thing
While I sit, waiting for you to come running home
You will eventually come back to the garden vegetables,
To the country air, to the simple living, to the love of a good woman.
How do I know?
You always come back to me, always have, always will.
Enjoy your time in the city.
I am in no hurry.
I am not demanding or commanding.
A woman who has pure love in her heart for you.
COVID-19
They christened her Corona, and not to be dismissed
The blight that made the planet, get its knickers in a twist
They closed the universities, and then they closed the schools
The world was in a panic because no one knew the rules
We soon ran out of toilet roll and the pasta disappeared
Sanitizer was no more and the various shelves were cleared
They brought in social distancing, self isolation too
We battened down the hatches from the microbes that accrue
All the sport was cancelled, the nightclubs had to shut
The bars then called last orders and life was in a rut
Things were getting serious; our lives were all in shock
Days just watching telly, and staring at the clock
A cure will come from somewhere, to make us well again
A welcome antitoxin from this self imposed constrain
Yet someone is responsible for causing this whole mess
A Government, a Military, who took things to excess
Lance was a drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf. Proud of it.
Not a highway man, not a flim-flam man, but a man who had traveled and knew things.
He had never settled down.
Or so he thought.
Until he met Lucy.
He recognized her instantly.
A blue-eyed, dark-haired gal with a personality that preceded her into nightclubs.
She had the best laugh in six counties.
A girl with a song in her heart.
A woman who had no idea how startlingly pretty she was.
She captured him instantly.
When Lance turned and looked into her eyes,
He knew he had come home.
He would never be a happy drifter again.
He had met his world.
She did not realize.
Had no idea,
but he was determined and he pursued her recklessly.
It became annoying and disturbing.
She was fearful of him.
He became angry.
Another mean woman, teasing him, leading him on.
He never realized he was the problem.
He was given his eighth restraining order, and mad as hell about it.
Just another tease.
What is wrong with all of these women? He wondered.
Never recognizing his smothering, incessant, exasperating, ways frightened them.
Never seeing himself the way others saw him.
Lance, drifter, a gypsy, a loner, a lone wolf, meeting his true love in every bar nightly.