A Boy And His Lute

Since my birthday falls this Saturday (the 31st) I decided to treat myself to a cool birthday present, namely a video of my recent poem The Scenester. Because I accoimpany myself on mandolin I used a lot of photos of myself playing the instrument at home and at play. I edited most of it on an ancient Corel movie software. I encourage all writers out there to record themselves and film themselves as often as possible. Anyway, enjoy at your own peril :)

Suburban Adam And Eve

SUBURBAN ADAM AND EVE

There were green lawns with sprinklers
shooting water towards the azure sky
Spanish tile towered with television antennae gables
tropical palm trees swaying in the soft wind
blowing away dark gray clouds coughing out of battered station wagons

Things were cool when I was sixteen years old
there was the girl, with her long, dark, wet brown hair
which often fell into her dark, wet brown eyes
she gave me a dark brown smile and said,
“wait a minute”

She climbed over the backyard fence
and I waited
I heard her voice over the fence,
“well come on”
I climbed over the fence too

She stood next to her neighbor’s peach tree
she pulled off a peach and handed it to me
“bite” she said
I bit into the soft flesh of the fuzzy fruit
the juice ran all over my hands
she took my hands holding the bleeding fruit

She bit deep into the fuzzy peach
her eyes boring into me
her warm, hungry, brown eyes not moving away from me
the stare of a tiger
the stare of a wolf

This is the way it began
and this is the way it goes on
Eden in suburban Culver City

**************

ROBODYKE

Bamalama bamalama Ooh poo padou
i have a rhythm machine
i call her Robodyke
there's a woman in there
big thick arms
flat top head
chews tobacco when she plays
she hits to kill

When i'm wearing guyliner
she says
"hey, slugger
why you're just a cute lil' bitch, arent'ya?"
shut up and play, Robodyke

Robodyke never lets me down
never gets tired damn her
when i turn her off
she lights up a lucky
cackles like a hen on fire
"hey, slugger
i'll bet your cock tastes like teen pussy"
shut up, Robodyke

You just want to be
a French sailor
comme Jean Genet

Painting by Evelyn De Morgan

Chatty Charlie

CHATTY CHARLIE

Chatty Charlie was two feet high
he was vinyl from head down to his little rubber shoes
except for his smartly tailored suit and snappy bowtie
bow tie daddy
with a string in the back he was dapper as fuck
but he had enough he had enough

Got up from the sofa and
put his adorable vinyl fingers to his mechanical mouth
ripped out a whistle
Talking Mike kicked his way out of his carrying case
Talking Mike had a sky-high matchstick of thatchy red hair
they both slowly trotted
like ventriloquist dummies always do to the kitchen

Chatty Charlie got on Talking Mike’s shoulders
raised up to the cutlery board
grabbed two sharp long knives
hopped back down and they
tramped on down to Barney’s bedroom

Barney snored
like a rusty saw across a Plymouth Barracuda car hood
Chatty Charlie slowly rotated his head over to Talking Mike
Talking Mike wanted to wink
but nobody was pulling his string

Chatty Charlie climbed to the left of the bed
Talking Mike climbed the right
plunging their knives into Barney
again and again and again
Barney screaming and bleeding
too late to fight

Blood soaking until it
looked like a scarlet waterbed
Chatty Charlie finally said, “Fuck you. That’s what you get for asking me about school, you bastard”.
Talking Mike said, “I did all the singing. All he did was drink water”.
never piss off a dummy with a knife

Ace Farren Ford & Andy Seven - Coaxial, Downtown Los Angeles (January 2020)

Submitted for your review is the last performance I gave before the COVID-19 specter hit the scene, playing tenor saxophone to Ace Farren Ford's alto saxophone at performance space Coaxial in downtown Los Angeles. It was a decent show, loud, wild and just long enough to stay in your memory. Enjoy. (Thanks to Daniel Kirby)

Stainless Steel Trees

STAINLESS STEEL TREES

I am cool, polished marble
i lie under stainless steel trees
around a lush green velvet lawn

Chameleons change to survive
changing to survive
too many destroying flesh
killing flesh
burning skin
and flesh
and bone
and hair

Change to survive
no more skin
no more flesh
no mare bone

So muuch killing
means nothing will ever
be the same

Change to survive
want to stay alive
like a chameleon
like a Rodin like a Henry Moore like a Michelangelo

I am cool, polished marble
smooth to the touch
frozen to the ends of time
with my stainless steel trees

Painting - The Big Game by Bernard Buffet.

The Ratodrome (For El Lobo Blanco)

I’m going to tell you a story
I promise it won’t be boring
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

Twas known as The Rat Man
a real gone cat, man
big long nose, lime green eyes
rat hair coat much too big for his size
Rat fur? Fur what? Fur rats!
Rat-a-tat-rat

Busted top hat lined with black rat hair
capped stringy locks which never showed care
necklace round his neck of rodent bones
bracelets of rat skulls as hard as stones
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

Walking down the cobblestones his hungry hound
to the roundhouse grindhouse down ground round
sweaty old space filled with men of great wealth
well-kept ladies hungry for a taste of hell

(Isn’t it funny how wealth and hell rhyme? Back to my story)

Welcome to The Ratodrome!

Rat Man steps into the pit with his hungry hound
money changes hands the bell is rung
release the rats release the hound
growling, squeaking, men all shouting cacophonic sounds
Monsieur Lacheur
Lacheur Monsieur

The street vermin race to the circular wall
the hound grabs their necks in his bloody fanged jaws
cracking their heads with his ravenous fangs
bloody rat claws twitching as their intestines go bang!

The noble rich men clutch clammy pale breasts
with their sweaty little hands
mamzelles laugh brashly, acidic champagne
seeping through their glands

The hound races round the circle
grabbing three at a clip
bones crunching to his munching
tearing them apart in his canine championship
Quelle domage quelle fromage quelle damage

Counter jots down how many how quickly
as the mamzelles begin to feel quite sickly
20 dead rats lie twitching in a heap
there’s no damn inheritance waiting for the meek

Monsieur Lacheur gets his fistful of francs
bloody bloody money death has no thanks
that’s all folks c’est terminé for cheap thrills
would you believe the wrong rats were killed