times are, when the pissed and flushed out old hipster
crankster, danceinthehall man, snorts and snoozes
asleeping, tries not to recall about all those cliff-edges
precipices dancing intime to the tripping undercurrent
riptides of sad music that quiver his underbelly
stomach, filled with lead by the evil mortician
physician to “protect from those spying eyes
retinas jellied and candied over, prying
wrenching open his secrets with high-tech”
tock. tock. the clock is grinning and the sun is down
falling, inquiring about the lead-belly, the lead-girdle
belt to hold his trousers up,
“Lead-Belly, Lead-Belly: where have you gone?
I have your trousers, please put them on!”
off the rockets, awake he swirls gold vermouth and gin
crystal-poison clinking, making a hurrlycane
tornado, it’s rough as nails, sharp as clams, rusty
red-iron. he doesn’t feel alive unless he’s bleeding inside.
internal dilemmas, coughcough, he doesn’t feel vim
vigour unless he’s brooding about mrs.
ball-and-chain’s been choking new thoughts
neurochemickals raging inside. the dj puts on a record
vinyl spins and crackles: L-B taps his foot upon the floor
wood pounding meets his ‘loafers as he slides
slips to the heart of that empty pulsing
beating and musical core,
“Lead-Belly, Lead-Belly: why do you cry?
“It’s not the end; we’re all gonna die!”
life parks its fat-rump in the corner, gonna stay
linger just a moment more, wink at this goat-song
sad-faced waitress is the only one who sees
high-techs from the corner the dancer’s secrets
mysteries abound in the out-flung arms, the twisting
whirling feet and the glittering disco ball
orb’s been splintering light for all of all of time
Sometimes, there are conspiracies everywhere you look. Other times, it’s just people wanting to party. When I was young, I was pretty concerned about getting old, and what that meant, and who I was. Now that I’m a bit older, I don’t really fret about it. Kind of the least of my worries, these days.