Saturday,
Been working on this for about three or four days. Still not totally satisfied with the beginning but in good enough shape to post, I think.
slow dragging on a cloudy day.
And I myself am feeling jazzy-lazy, ragtime crazy
as the summer broils my brain, heats up my veins,
forces me to growl a melancholy song
that Billie might have sung way back in ’41 while high on heroin.
Her ivory horse adrift from dirty bathroom to the kitchen sink,
down the corridor where the pasty coroner gets you ready
for the grave, then crawling low into that deep, dark hole and
through the swinging doors of the local jook where thick cigar
and cigarette smoke and those shady men in overcoats
claw at that sweet, tight ass as she struts past the wobbly chairs
and splintered tabletops. She slides across the barroom floor
that’s stained with beer and blood, where coat-tail waiters shrug
and shuffle ‘bout in wingtip shoes and holey dungarees still damp
from slaving in the fields. They mutter to themselves, “It’s hot as hell!”
And God, He laughs out loud, “You think it’s hot, huh?!
Boys, come live up here inside the sun!”
‘Cause even He-On-Top sometimes must stop
to grumble to Himself while changing into linen robes,
“Because them silky ones will lick you up like jellyroll!”
And me and He and Billie all agree,
this mean ol’ life, no matter where you be,
or who you be just makes you wanna die,
makes you sweat, makes you scream.
—rrw o7-27-13
Been working on this for about three or four days. Still not totally satisfied with the beginning but in good enough shape to post, I think.
SWEAT
Not sure the
sky is blue today,
it seems to me
a muddy Chevrolet slow dragging on a cloudy day.
And I myself am feeling jazzy-lazy, ragtime crazy
as the summer broils my brain, heats up my veins,
forces me to growl a melancholy song
that Billie might have sung way back in ’41 while high on heroin.
Her ivory horse adrift from dirty bathroom to the kitchen sink,
down the corridor where the pasty coroner gets you ready
for the grave, then crawling low into that deep, dark hole and
through the swinging doors of the local jook where thick cigar
and cigarette smoke and those shady men in overcoats
claw at that sweet, tight ass as she struts past the wobbly chairs
and splintered tabletops. She slides across the barroom floor
that’s stained with beer and blood, where coat-tail waiters shrug
and shuffle ‘bout in wingtip shoes and holey dungarees still damp
from slaving in the fields. They mutter to themselves, “It’s hot as hell!”
And God, He laughs out loud, “You think it’s hot, huh?!
Boys, come live up here inside the sun!”
‘Cause even He-On-Top sometimes must stop
to grumble to Himself while changing into linen robes,
“Because them silky ones will lick you up like jellyroll!”
And me and He and Billie all agree,
this mean ol’ life, no matter where you be,
or who you be just makes you wanna die,
makes you sweat, makes you scream.
—rrw o7-27-13
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