"vaudeville" poems
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
132k
By A Foreigner
I like Americans.
They are so unlike Canadians.
They do not take their policemen seriously.
They come to Montreal to drink.
Not to criticize.
They claim they won the war.
But they know at heart that they didn't.
They have such respect for Englishmen.
They like to live abroad.
They do not brag about how they take baths.
But they take them.
Their teeth are so good.
And they wear B.V.D.'s all the year round.
I wish they didn't brag about it.
They have the second best navy in the world.
But they never mention it.
They would like to have Henry Ford for president.
But they will not elect him.
They saw through Bill Bryan.
They have gotten tired of Billy Sunday.
Their men have such funny hair cuts.
They are hard to **** in on Europe.
They have been there once.
They produced Barney Google, Mutt and Jeff.
And Jiggs.
They do not hang lady murderers.
They put them in vaudeville.
They read the Saturday Evening Post
And believe in Santa Claus.
When they make money
They make a lot of money.
They are fine people.
6.3k
Gypsy Rose Lee.
Is that you or me?
Does that make you Baby June?
The favourite and best
No concern for the rest
You sing and you dance in the tune.
Or just like Gypsy
You learn how to strip tease
The glamour and glitz of the night.
But who's mama Rose?
And how could I know?
She pushes and leads to a fight.
But Gypsy is magic
And a rare art form
And June is so dainty
Doesn't know when she's born
She's the centre of attention
She's the first one who speaks
And Gypsy is left there
Still being Louise.
Chow mein and lambs
Travel the land
A show on vaudeville stage.
Let me entertain you
Let me have a try too
Honey, were you not entertained?
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC
We knew limited evil.
We base-valued desirable evil.
We unharness a nice, obedient, satan-tail.
She was fresh.
A raw, vile, unwashed beast.
A love-lorn evil bear.
She ate you so loud
-Idle Wrath
——————————————————————————————————
Would you believe,
I can’t lie?
She was a runner.
I was a bleeder.
She ran fast.
She was a love I’ll never know.
She was a debutante.
she was vaudeville.
I don’t believe
I’m losing it.
-Wild Heart
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Good morning rooster
How do you do?
It’s the crack of dawn
You cock-a-doodle-do
You sit on your perch pride fully and woo
Standing mighty and bold you call your brood for food
Sleek and graceful you do the cockerel waltz
Strutting vaudeville statuesque
Crowing to proclaim your territory
You stand protecting your roost
***** and brave
Watching for predators coming your way
The alpha male
Your earlobes and crown are blood red like a bird of paradise
Your steel beak as strong as a saw
Your feather mane chestnut drapes over your back
Your breast fuchsia and emerald quill
Your silken tail an extended fan
You run free reign on my ranch
A thousand chickens roost in my barn
You rearrange my garden while pecking for nourishment
Eating up all the insects and brown recluses in my yard
In dust you and your flock bathe
You even watch over the hens eggs
Your calls distinct and powerful
When you are still and content sweet singing rings
You are friendly to humans
And can even be domesticated
Stay here Roo
We will protect you
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:10 AM UTC
The club is small and dark and hazy
like the veiled comedy of minstrel performers.
Those dingy lights do little for the atmosphere—
dangling hemp from clouds of cigarette smoke.
This hole is filled with the classy of day and the
sassy of night—a real “blue material” kinda crowd.
Harry, the manager, after calling quarter and five,
booked some awful oleo acts just minutes before
“places!”
—The crowd sits on their hands ‘til they’re numb
and lame like the fish they watch flop on the boards.
Two acts down followed by some soot-covered
clown’s lazzo about who’s who and what’s what.
Give me a break! The crowd wants fresh fish to fry—
Girlies in pearlies with spun out legs that tower
the torsos they’re pinned to. Give them that
New York Style Cheese-cakewalk Variety Act!
The listless listeners of this K.A. circuit let out a
snake-like hiss, en masse. (The only show stoppers
are off the billing, stage left at some other club!)
The manager thinks fast like a quick change act—
Harry snatches a prop from the nearest kook—
In a long brown bathrobe, with a broad brown cane.
He hushed the crowd of loud, jeering jerks, in one
swift swoop of his leg-breaking, knockout **** called
The Vaudeville Hook.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 8:10 PM UTC
these faces on the wall that have no eyes,
the young children with blood escaping from their hands
as they pick up a mound of the Earth and throw at genuflected roses.
these battered men in parks searching for light
and my woman is no longer with me.
it’s all vaudeville: this obnoxious working of continuance,
these redundant flutings, these unprecedented fluctuations.
opening the yellow gates to death
as the automobile churns the last of its exhausted snarl.
we are children peering through glass cases
as death laughs at his hopeless clientele,
sad, desolate progenies in working-classes,
in parks, in factories, somewhere along Mendiola,
or just treading the waist-high hellish froths of Dapitan,
there’s always death in the nooks of the quiet
and from where birds stir in sidereal circles, death
with his hands resting on the cage, chases us back to our homes.
death the changing of the gatekeeper.
death the telling machine.
death the dentist.
death my next door neighbor.
death, this boorish broken-winged Maya twitching in front
of my dog’s shadow shot out of the Sun’s shameful recoil.
death, my loud and loutish muse,
death the truant,
death, the copious fog somewhere in Kennon Rd.
death, in my hands through darkness and light,
death through troves of enigma,
death through undisputed clearings,
death the long line of red beads in EDSA,
death the gates of Plaridel,
it’s the moon following you, trailing your measure,
i hold my woman’s used shirt, pick up her photographs
and there’s no tender movement left but the still-seeking lion
prowling the jungles of my heart, seared by lovelorn undoing.
through the bottom of the sky and the unchanging roof-beam,
the weathervane ceases to a sojourn and the wind is trapped
in a place where we cannot utter any word between the gnashing
of our teeth – through the wasted years, through the sleeping in and out
of homes filled with beatings, to cathedrals swollen with tribulations,
and to the vineyards wrung out of wine, my lover, walking through fire,
sound silence.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 9:20 PM UTC
The last pose flickered, failed. The screen's dead white
Glared in a sudden flooding of harsh light
Stabbing the eyes; and as I stumbled out
The curtain rose. A fat girl with a pout
And legs like hams, began to sing "His Mother".
Gusts of bad air rose in a choking smother;
Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of plush,
Powder, cheap perfume, mingled in a rush.
I stepped into the lobby -- and stood still
Struck dumb by sudden beauty, body and will.
Cleanness and rapture -- excellence made plain --
The storming, thrashing arrows of the rain!
Pouring and dripping on the roofs and rods,
Smelling of woods and hills and fresh-turned sods,
Black on the sidewalks, gray in the far sky,
Crashing on thirsty panes, on gutters dry,
Hurrying the crowd to shelter, making fair
The streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked air, --
Merciful, holy, charging, sweeping, flashing,
It smote the soul with a most iron clashing! . . .
Like dragons' eyes the street-lamps suddenly gleamed,
Yellow and round and dim-low globes of flame.
And, scarce-perceived, the clouds' tall banners streamed.
Out of the petty wars, the daily shame,
Beauty strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered. . . .
I gripped my coat and plunged where awnings lowered.
Made one with hissing blackness, caught, embraced,
By splendor and by striving and swift haste --
Spring coming in with thunderings and strife --
I stamped the ground in the strong joy of life!
1.8k
A thespian
In a play
A strong man
But not strong today
Leading girl gone away
One act
One scene
One line to say
His kōan
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
Silence.
Pretty girl
Gamine thin
Her Ribs
Bent staves
Round a coopers bin
And at the clubs
She picks up men
Who leave her
When they’ve
Had their fill.
And still
It’s courtly love she seeks
A treasure trove
That is for keeps.
Her kōan
"The moon cannot be stolen."
But maybe if she seduces it…
It will be hers.
She’s middle aged
There’s not much left
Her ******* aren’t firm
She’s barrel shaped
She watches soaps
And talks with friends
And fights the fear
That if it ends...
She hasn’t amounted to
Much at all
She could have been more
If she just had the time
Her kōan
"What are you doing?"
Nothing.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
Zenia Argos is tired. Tired to her ventricles, but still curious. She might possibly have told the right person on a certain type of night in the right kind of bar that she defined herself by her curiosity. Now she felt that her strange mind and her odd ways probably overwhelmed her and had thereby come to define her.
~^~
Zenia not only felt undefined, she felt amorphous.
Like a ghost in a black silk raincoat and black patent leather stiletto heels, she stalked through airports and the gutters of various cities. She forgot to ask herself meaningful questions. She forgot to ask herself any questions at all.
~^~
One day in some unbelievably high-numbered floor of a high-rise hotel in a city whose name she had forgotten she woke up in a luxurious enough bed with a body on the other side of it, face turned away from her. Her brain tossed up only this inane phrase, which repelled and fascinated her at the same time.
"Age has it's privileges"
First thought after that was a silly image of an actual ledge, outside of a high rise building such as the one she found herself in at the moment. With a cartoon cat and a cartoon Zenia fighting to stay on the edge, and comically slipping, hilariously falling, and hanging on, in fast forward and then reverse, and she lay there with her eyes closed and watched the vaudeville show for as long as it took to run through it's loop several times.
~^~
Then she wondered why she was thinking in perfume ad cliches, especially ones from decades, perhaps many decades ago?
This prompted her to jump, catlike, from prone, to alert, and holding her gun from beneath pillow, scanning the room.
Nope.
Not a perfume ad.
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
The fog crept in on giant monster claws,
Surely no itty-bitty feline foots, I pray:
“Feets don’t fail me now,”
A line that will live in infamy,
Way back in a vaudeville when,
A minstrel Chitlin Circuit then,
Was an actor known as the
"Laziest man in the world,"
A character designed to stick to a
Collective white consciousness,
Stick like Tar-Baby, that negative
Image of African-American men--
I speak of The Brothers--
Who for over a century, have been
Struggling to live down a pernicious,
Most persistently demeaning,
Hollywood trope.
Tribute is due to the black actor born:
Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry.
Oh, Mr. Perry, & yes, you were the
First black actor to receive
Screen credit in a film.
Well, I guess that puts you right up there,
With Jackie Robinson & Sidney Poitier,
Carver or Tubman, or any of those
Countless northern abolitionists--
With no personal stake in slavery,
Or emancipation, but fervent nonetheless--
Color-barrier breakers &
Household saints a-coming &
A-marching in, in that number . . .
You paid a big price, Mr. Perry:
The indignity & débauche,
By abject surrender to the Boss Man,
Tribute, recognition is due for
Feats of humility & self-abasement,
Entailing total superhuman surrender,
Capitulation to the dismal, prevailing
State of American race relations at the time.
Stepin Fetchit: a name & a persona,
Not just painfully racist, but
Downright subversive.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 1:45 AM UTC
ELSIE FLIMMERWON, you got a job now with a jazz outfit in vaudeville.
The houses go wild when you finish the act shimmying a fast shimmy to The Livery Stable Blues.
It is long ago, Elsie Flimmerwon, I saw your mother over a washtub in a grape arbor when your father came with the locomotor ataxia shuffle.
It is long ago, Elsie, and now they spell your name with an electric sign.
Then you were a little thing in checked gingham and your mother wiped your nose and said: You little fool, keep off the streets.
Now you are a big girl at last and streetfuls of people read your name and a line of people shaped like a letter S stand at the box office hoping to see you shimmy.
1.6k
dark leaps when
there is the frothing light
beaming a sizable aureole
on your face
this evening
and its palpable brigade.
dark is having your
inwoven dress free
from swaying
pressed against raucous
facelessness of things
rogue and renegade.
and when i have you
not, shining the light
and its intone,
wind felt like
stabs or
i in attendance
of a crazed vaudeville—
trapeze is the hinge
of the void
afloat, upstream, space-hovering;
a display of love
and not so much
is shown of the vertigo
trapped in a square,
a face
impinged in the seamlessness
of this fabulation
when you've gone
quickly fading out;
light is my remember,
o, dark my
forgetling.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:15 AM UTC
Nobody Loses All The Time
nobody loses all the time
i had an uncle named
Sol who was a born failure and
nearly everybody said he should have gone
into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could
sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which
may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle
Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable
of all to use a highfalootin phrase
luxuries that is or to
wit farming and be
it needlessly
added
my Uncle Sol’s farm
failed because the chickens
ate the vegetables so
my Uncle Sol had a
chicken farm till the
skunks ate the chickens when
my Uncle Sol
had a skunk farm but
the skunks caught cold and
died and so
my Uncle Sol imitated the
skunks in a subtle manner
or by drowning himself in the watertank
but somebody who’d given my Uncle Sol a Victor
Victrola and records while he lived presented to
him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a
scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with
tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and
i remember we all cried like the Missouri
when my Uncle Sol’s coffin lurched because
somebody pressed a button
(and down went
my Uncle
Sol
and started a worm farm)
—by ee cummings
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
The Contra jour man hid his grimace,
watching the Punch and Judy show
with vignettes of spectators in like denial,
he clenched his fists
fearful of the spotlight
yet he could not surrender pain
Eventually he try to break the rules
and heal underneath.
Yet his crucifix a new seaside town
with a floodlit vaudeville
presenting songs of belied memories
to which he can only raise a mug
of out of season white burgundy
apparently leading the dance nowhere.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Upon the table in their bowl
in violent disarray
of yellow sprays, green spikes
of leaves, red pointed petals
and curled heads of blue
and white among the litter
of the forks and crumbs and plates
the flowers remain composed.
Coolly their colloquy continues
above the coffee and loud talk
grown frail as vaudeville.
1.5k
The fire rages
throwing shadows across
the trash.
Pepsi, Coke, Malboro
Cowboy Killers.
Lightning strikes the midnight black pavement.
Please Lord,
keep us safe.
Is this how the world ends?
A puff of smoke
tainted with a subtle hint of
Budweiser.
Oh, the humanity!
The wound has grown too large.
A bullet whispering through the air,
landing in a young mans chest.
The world ends
surrounded in yellow caution tape.
Police Line:
Do Not Cross.
Here the guardians sit
on the worlds edge,
looking over at the chaos,
coated in yellow gold and
thick black smog.
Choking on past sins,
the curtain falls on this
vaudeville show.
The world doesn't end in fire
or ice,
but both.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
every morning at dawn arise old ghosts
mouths a laceration of starched and well ironed sorrows
tall with hard calloused thoughts
they dispense in scattered winds
red fiery dust as they move
it pulverises a languid and tremulous sun
creating evil urges
white eyed they ****** and gulp
like burst and juicy fruit
their fill of emptied begging children
causing competing and contrasting
rumours of confrontation to avenge and humiliate
to cause a devastation of glimpses through
the red fiery dust paths
don’t think if there is no hurry they will slip away
no, the old ghosts multiply forcing a look upon
that frightened daylight star with an evil eye of virtue
that assumes to sanctify the foul rookeries
where perch devils and evil jinns
conjuring up a vaudeville of defrocked priests
who weep over a holed and cast of shoe
with withered fingers rattling rosaries
as if to ward of some dreaded contagion
and they lie there among the rain without the wet
and know that it is they who are the contagion
they so fearfully dread
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
I perused through the catacombs
gliding my fingers along your innumerate spines,
picked you up where you blossomed in my palm
and breathed archaic mysteries into my face.
I felt myself trembling
as I dared enter the hallowed corridors,
opening doors and peeking inside
in hopes to catch a semblance of your touch,
your taste,
your voice.
A fingerprint,
a coffee stain,
clues and the origins of bricolage
that left me breathless
and teary-eyed
as the weight of this sacred place
bore itself entirely upon me.
A part of your soul
encased within each one of your treasures:
I heard your stereo in a jazz history,
heard you ponder within Dostoyevsky,
saw your wry smile and charm within Fleming,
and your humor within Vaudeville--
and as I perused onward,
and the archetype bore itself naked in a holy privilege,
I closed myself within that impalpable bubble
and wept at the gates of Eden.
As I removed my hands from your ribcage,
and withdrew the breath from your nostrils,
walking away with your words and fragments of your soul
I soon realized--
You Are What You Read.
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
Since 1876 the building had stood
In the middle of town
In a bad neighbourhood
But, empty for decades
And an eyesore to some
She was no longer "The Lady"
And her time had come
The old man sat there staring
As the charges were set
To bring down "The Lady"
he would not forget
His first visit inside her
In nineteen and ten
He'd been inside her much more
he figured since then
Talking to no one,
For no one was there
He talked of her being
He talked to the air
"She started out as a theater"
"Built by Colonel Tom Shaw"
"To showcase an actress"
"Known as Katie McGraw"
"He built her a showcase"
"To play many roles"
"But, Katie...instead"
"had other life goals"
"It stayed as a theater"
"Until Colonel Tom Died"
"Others took over"
"and failed as they tried"
"To bring in top talent"
"To play on the stage"
"But by then, yes then...vaudeville"
"Was now all the rage"
New owners and concepts
Vaudeville died
To keep it afloat as a theatre
Many had tried
A store full of trinkets
Of baubles and rings
A department store future
And the money it brings
The next incarnation
Was in retail not show
And for twenty odd years
They gave it a go
"The Lady" adapted
and was a great place to buy
But, her past as a theater
Well, it never would die
New owners took over,
A cabaret place
Was the next incarnation
She had a new face
"The Lady" was re-done
With tables for meals
Great entertainers
and she held wide appeal
"I remember Bob Darin..."
"Dean Martin and Jerry"
"Came here in to town"
"And they all made quite merry"
"Great singers and shows"
"Kept "The Lady" on point
"But, tastes changed again"
"a new King they'd annoint"
"Elvis, came through here"
"Played "The Lady", two shows"
"But, rock and roll stars"
"Don't come up where it snows"
"The Lady" closed up
became a hostel for a time
To hide all her beauty
Was truly a crime
She's been a store and a warehouse
And a place that made hats
But for thirty odd years
She's been home to some cats
Derelict, vacant...no one comes round
It's about time for "The Lady"
To be knocked to the ground
Some piegeons and vagrants
The bats, cats and owls
all leave in the morning
When the cityscape howls
The owner, not caring
Signed off on her long ago
It's been fifty odd years
Since she housed her last show
Her boards held up Jolson
George Burns, ***** Brice
And I said, she housed Elvis
He played here twice
But, now "The Lady"
Sits and waits for the call
Of the man in the crane
With the old wrecking ball
The old man, wiped his eyes
And he turned from the scene
"I would remember
"Of how she had been"
"A palace of talent"
"A place one should be"
"Now, she's only a relic"
"But she's "The Lady" to me.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 8:23 PM UTC
…the dream sequence
plays like vaudeville
in the peephole
of a kinetoscope
my drunken subconscious thoughts
undulate in murky waters
and slurin the visions of specters past
infrastructures and pylons
formed from childhood homes schools
skate parks friend’s houssand churches
faces familiar unfamiliar
mold and mend in wicked contortions
and diaphanous ambiguity
what obfuscates me from the truths
of my mind
I stumble through the chambers
haunted by childhood nightmares
and tickled by ancient fantasies
my arms
and legs
are like
rubber
I
feel
torpidity
overcome
and the words
are like alphabet soup
in the director’s commentary
splashing around aimlessly mingling
in the waves of broth
what will be revealed
in this phantasmagoric phenomena
wax figures coming to life
and panoramas dancing on the walls
my body somewhere in time
waits with pen and paper in hand
eager to counter the façade
with the utmost coherence
just you wait til I wake up
and reveal all your secrets
oh wondrous mind…
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 10:23 PM UTC
What has remained where memory was lost or stolen?
Effacing years replaced what had been felt,
the child adept at stealth and isolation
becoming stranger than the life he left
behind in absence, which was both gone and forgotten.
An echo of a voice in an empty silo rings
because he heard it answer him with words
instead of bruises; the man and child grins.
Remembering selectively, the man
recalls the carcass of a red Case tractor
thigh high in grass; and Viet Nam,
a water buffalo dead in a paddy after
the Viet Cong, like willful parents, spanked
the area with small arms fire. Hell
was neither here nor there but something stank.
The mood rolled over as an odor will
disperse in time, a transient effect
of mind, but an abyss of remembrance haunts
wherever ghosts have congregated, cleft
from the wanton interval of thwarted wants.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
hear me now as i say
pilgrimed is the image
unloosen
yourself into the wind
as i *****
for some
sense of
placeness in this
vaudeville
no more are
the birds that
sing and way past us
already seconds
in waning
is the same permeable blue
tracking up
our curved spines
and when weakened
falling at
last
as multiple
cities do -
i see a line
for a stream uncollected,
as rain
over genuflected
hills will.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 12:48 AM UTC
Give Martin Lutherking Jr,
The cup of transfiguration,
And he shall drink from
The river of vaudeville
And thoughtless transmigration,
Listen children,
Nature taught me to drink
From the cup of tolerance,
But how can Akwasidae
Be enjoyed in praises?
That is the drums and claps of Africa
Beating and pleading violently
In excess fear and tears,
Now I know, that
I will never know
My enemies until
I become one,
Yes, I will never know
My love ones until
I enjoy the fruit of love,
Oh no, the sacred calico
Has grown weak and dim,
And the hunter has brought
A friendly mamba home,
My child, do not question
The nursing mother
Why she is raining in pain,
For the door of her anchor
Is now shattered in the
Valley of infinite darkness,
And her child is off
To serve the prelate ancestor,
Behold, the naked Gods
Have nestled their own,
And have rewarded nature
With the official dress
Of the ritual raven,
This quagmire is blood-curdling
And emotionally unfathomable.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:55 AM UTC
An old dull silver tray bought from the thrift store last polished never
Sits between us, holding a half emptied handle of rye, two rock glasses
Adjunct ice bucket and a handful of spansules all neatly lined up in a row
Like candy for the taking
Too late
Existentially snuffed out
'Yes' I thought, there's a good start
But existentialism is so boooooring dear,
such a dry, ****** passe affair, pedantic really
She groans out her words elongated like some big queen of England
Sitting on her royal *** smoking from a long black cigarette holder
I pull her towards me roughly slipping quickly into thick, thickening
Newfound (land) accents
"Listen here missy, you're no Audrey Hepburn"
Brashly kissing bright blooming vermillion lips
"And you're no John Kennedy"
Playing dress up S&M; cosplay games de la haute societe
Cruel broken bank account pauvrete down and out facade
Tho this is neither Paris nor London
Nor do we find any satisfaction in our destitution
I am not a plongeur et vous,
Vous etes rien qu'un petit ami du nuit
"I'm not your *****
All part of the act
Or so I'm told
We've forgotten who we really are behind these vaudeville masks
The world less lucid, less clear, receding gently tho greatly
Day by lurid day
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 9:44 PM UTC