Beach tunes happy-go-lucky spins around the living room the way you catch me when I launch myself at the kitchen tiles, I just wanted to catch something right like a childhood home and things won’t stop lobbing themselves at the walls like sad, falling existential poets eye rolls bad yarn fingerprints track loosely around this domestic space come in for a slow dance, I’ll tie my hair up and we’ll use the lawnmower as a kitchen table chasing our dinner down the street microwaved bats keep coming through the windows Happy Halloween, my love. Slow lips touch themselves together tiredly at the end of the words fall off the face sliding slowly drum beats pleasantly thoughts die here in this greeting card poster perfection ohh, how nice it would be to have a shootout in a 50’s diner with baguettes the same tune it lollops around the room a little glamorously nothing has ever been this perfectly balanced before I fall off my chair it knows something we don’t.
THE PIANO KEYS. KEEP STEPPING. ON MY TOES. THEY DO IT WITH A LOW, GRAVELLY, DOMESTIC APPLIANCE VOICE LIKE THE DAY I CAUGHT YOU DANCING. DANCING SO BEAUTIFULLY. IN THE VIOLET ROOM WITH THE SHAGGY. DRUNKEN. HOOVER. OH. ONE-EYED CARPET FACE I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING. I SWEAR MY TINNITUS IS ACTING UP. THE ROOM HASN’T STOPPED RINGING SINCE YOU OPENED YOUR MOUTH THE FIRST TIME. WHAT AN UPSIDE-DOWN BLUES CLUB I WALKED INTO. I ORDER A DRINK FROM THE SINK. IT TOLD ME STRAIGHT OUT TO **** RIGHT OFF. I THINK I JUST LOST ITS NOTEBOOK. THE ROOM OF BACKWARDNESS. OUTWARD. HANDS. THUMBS. I THINK I MEAN. PLEASE DEAR GOD. STOP CROONING. SIGHS THE RUG. TIRED OF STEVEN. STEVEN DOESN’T KNOW EITHER. ANYTHING. NOT EVEN. ABOUT THE CARPET.
Big fluffy dressing gowns keep misbehaving and stuffing themselves into un-rounded empty spaces and the spaces are shrinking so excuse me BUT I’M A LITTLE STUCK OVER HERE like the nightmare about losing teeth, about being too small and driving a big van, a massive van down a long hill, it gets steeper and THERE’S NO BRAKES. MAYBE IT’S THE MARRIAGE OF TWO PERFECT ENTITIES, ME AND THE DRESSING GOWNS, that is. But I’d expected it to pan out a little differently than end in the middle of a Bridget Jones film or some other badly frequented metaphor glued together with lollipop sticks. Who are these people who don’t find themselves biting into deep pure, gross, clogged nothing when they have an empty wall in front of them? I bet THEY DANCE FABULOUSLY with toasters.
When I think of you, I hear a marimba in my head. I'm lost like a stray cat. Baby, I swear I'll hop a train and head west, to roll away from the memory of you. This mad hatter moon lights my way, and I'm done holding on. I'm getting a bottle of whiskey, and drinking it until you become a blurry memory. Then I'm jumping that train.
This is another poem I wrote off the cuff for the Tom Waits Challenge
Passing by those owners of sad lost eyes like Rubin's faceless slumping on kerb ridges body bridges between pavements and shuttered shop cages where the cast of a streetlamp gets swallowed up by dime bag shadows, 30 to 1 outsiders and washed up wannabe beatniks too wild for Kerouac pages. I'm sure there's a beauty somewhere there below the crust of the surface late in the a.m. between stiletto heels clip and echo and the strike and flare of cigaretted fingers if I only dared to thread and seek out where a different twist of choice nearly led.
Thomas W Case Tom Waits vibe challenge. This was fun
I was living in this flop house above a **** shop in Amarillo. I had a one eyed cat named Walter, I'd bet a sawbuck that when I slept, he drank my whiskey. I sill love him though. He stuck around longer than those old painted up ladies that strolled through, and tested my bed springs. I got two shots of Wild Irish Rose left, then it's back to these ***** streets of broken dreams and sick scenes.
Here is my challenge to everyone.......Write a poem inspired by Tom Waits....Everyone welcome. Here is mine.
She wore her red shoes to Romeos funeral and misssed the stale smell of his cheap cologne and that his lips had always tasted of whiskey she picked up a card and some flowers and a strange ballon for $29 and some spare change from the drug store on Kentucky Ave. where someone had stolen her favorite alligator purse somewhere in the distance a train pulling box cars whistled to the magpies with their wings spread up above just hanging there like kites and she wore a pretty blue gun strapped to her thigh right over where he had left his teeth marks on the forth of July the one he had given her on the Valentine's day he had spent in jail for attempting to rob the jewelry store for the necklace she had wanted for Christmas the December before the same Christmas all he could give her was his favorite skull and crossbones ring tied around the broken piano string he had once tried to wear as a tie they had meet the night he stole her record player and she had happened to be on the wrong side of the road as he made his way from the scene of the crime completely unaware she would steal his heart before he would see another sunrise but that was all before he took a bullet to the chest after avenging his brother that was left to die without his knife they had found his body in the theater with his shoes full of blood and a smile on his face and she knew as his body was lowered into the cold cold ground her new favorite color was going to be blue come next Valentine's day