Shouting in a Bucket Blues

Ah, this is sad

Hard Times for 2013

Updated verses for a song that's a few years old now:

The Mayans made a prophecy
When the end'd at last occur
Instead we got the usual:
A schoolhouse massacre.

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

A policeman tried to tell me
His department was corrupt
He killed his captain's daughter
Before they blew him up

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Lightning struck the Vatican
The chimney smoke blew black
The Pope had run away, and they
Were trying to get him back

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Maybe I am trying to hard
To read between the lines
Are asteroids and meteors
Exploding warning signs?

Hard times are these, my friends
Hard times, indeed

Dorothy's Parka (Who Cares the Least)

It's taken me a while to get something here, really had a strong desire to "reply" to 4P. It's not what I initially imagined but I like it anyway. Makes a nice bookend I think. And a couple of nice "tricks" in it that gave me pleasure to write.

I'm sorry darling that I distinguish
What I show and how I feel
Your love infects me like possession
At your feet I bow and kneel

It may happen in conversation
I wear a mask and show restraint
You must know that I adore you
And I'm showing what I ain't

Could I survive the raging passion
Endure sans cesse the touch so sweet
Every day I would expire
Denied convention's clemency

So watch: I'm bland; see: I'm insipid
I've covered up the shameless beast
Who waits supine, dying for you
While I pretend to care the least

The Next To Last Night of the Year

Well isn't this a lovely night?
The bar has both Bud and Coor's Lite
You asked me not to call too late
But I'm starting to deteriorate
Two idiots right by the door
Go on about how they much drank the night before
Why'm I alone
Why am I here
On the next to last day
Of the year


My mother said that if your bored
You lack Resources--Oh, Good Lord!
I'm sorry if I seem remorseless
But I admit that I've no Resources
Tomorrow night, off to the scene
Where the boys are dumb and the girls are kind of mean
Why will I go
Why aren't you here
On the next to last day
Of the year


This morning as the sun arose
I was still dressed in last night's clothes
The crescent moon was nearly gone
The stars were fading in the dawn
Tomorrow night, another day
Another wasted year gets toasted and gets thrown away
And why go on
If you're not here
On the next to last day
Of the year

4.P

Came up with this while reading Dorothy Parker on the flight home from Montgomery AL:

All my wisest friends have told me

If you'd save yourself distress

Keep a close watch on your heart

Be the one who loves the less

Love well, my friend, but not too much

So they tell me that it's best

To lose your head but not completely

Be the one who loves the less

If you keep your feelings penned up

Slightly distant and amused

You're much more likely to end up

With your heart just slightly bruised

This is what my wise friends tell me

Thinking of my happiness

Yet I think just one more time I'll

Be the one who loves to excess

Last November I had an attack of the gout that had me limping for a few weeks.  The doctor told me I had to end my relationship with my old friend Bertolino Bourboni.  He since relented and told me it's OK to see him, now and again, socially, but that our former passionate friendship might lead to more and more frequent gout attacks.  I've done it before, of course, but this is a sad thing.  Tuba-playng and sobriety don't go together so well.

Bobbi's Coming Back

We've had our little summer fling

Our brief clandestine tryst

But I can't see you any more

Please go now, I insist…

Bobbi watches all her fellows

Her temper's bad, and she's jealous

Better run girl, girl run faster

If she catches you, it'll be a disaster

Tell your priest to start saying mass

'Cause Bobbi's going to kick your ass

All the way to Indiana

She's a new Tura Satana

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You won't like the resolution

Of her acts of retribution

But Bobbi's coming back to town

Sure we had a brief flirtation

But it's time to change your focus

Weren't you talking about taking a vacation

To visit your sister in Ho-Ho-Kus?

Don't think she'll get any softer--

Now she's taking her earrings off her

She will go and snap your body

She knows kung-fu and karate

Bobbi has the force when she gets vicious

Of a few well-armed militias

She'll do grievous bodily acts of harm

Someone just might buy the farm

'Cause now Bobbi's coming back

B-B-B-Bobbi's coming back

Bobbi's coming back to town

You better get your bags packed

If you don't want to get whacked

'Cause Bobbi's coming back to town

                                      The original Tura Satana

The Old Bear to Delmore Schwartz

Poor bear

     His toothless mouth that cannot bite

     His eyes now clouded milky white

     His sad, unending appetite

The old bear’s fallen down

Poor bear

Making wild faces like a brute

Pulling tricks in his charm suit

Panting, roaring, what a beaut

The old bear, man about town

Poor bear

Shambling with his funny trot

Humbled in a bunny squat

Looking for his honey pot 

The old bear of renown

Poor bear

In his sleep lets out a scream

All he ever does is dream

Of eating candy and ice cream

The old bear’s lost his crown

And even when I think I'm alone

He apes every move I make

I hear his sad, pathetic groan

The vast world of his bellyache

Poor bear

The joker with his rubber ball

His shoes too big, his pants too small

They clap and laugh to watch him fall

The old bear's just a clown

Poor bear

Takes one more round on stage

He growls and lunges out in rage

Ha ha!  Too funny! Doesn't need a cage

The old bear's going down

Bye, Ray

http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/ray-collins-original-mothers-of-invention-singer-dead-of-heart-attack-20121227



(not to be confused with Lieutenant Tragg)

The Chatter and The Noise

An Along Came Jones studio recording: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5f9ATPbocDw

 

Happy birthday Jymn!  Let it flow with you.

F-hole

My wife

            with the dimple on her scrollwork

            with the smell of spruce and rosin

            the small of her back that vibrates

            as gently as a sound post

And her little f-hole

My wife

            her tongue a run of eighth notes

            arpeggio eyelashes

            allegretto fingers

her thighs two even half notes

And her little f-hole

           

And from somewhere within her

There beats a hidden metronome

A rhythm that I can’t quite capture

The ocean, my own secret home

My wife

her breasts a bit rubato

her navel a fermata

her cleft is like the moment

            between the up-bow and the down-bow

And her little f-hole

With thanks to Man Ray and André Breton's "L'Union Libre"

Let me be the first

To wish you happy birthday, Johny.
It's just past midnight in the departure lounge. Was hoping to write you a rhyme about all the gifts I wish you had, or I had to give you, or you had to get, but inspiration fails. So I'll settle for taking advantage of living half a day ahead of you to wish you all the best, first.
Love

On Martyrs

Here's what I ended up with, Jim:

When I think of my love for you

It’s like staring right into the sun

Maybe we only really see

When the story’s finished up and done

Loving you is as bottomless

As a dark infinity

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

My heart’s spitted on a stake

Burning with a clear, undying flame

Ashes rise up into the air

Spelling out the letters of your name

Oh you are my true lode star

You’re my only destiny

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

Poor old Saint Bartholomew had his

Skin flayed off him while he lived

Anthony was stabbed so many times

That he started leaking like a sieve

Saints embrace their suffering
And that suff’ring makes them free

Martyrs die for love, my dear

But your love will be the death of me

One Roll of the Dice ...

RIP Mister Wilson

http://www.stjohnscollege.edu/news/memoriam-wilson.shtml

RIP Lol Coxhill

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jul/11/lol-coxhill

The Devil Took My Woman

Dennis suggested the title, Euripides suggested the rest.  Μωροσ γαρ μορα λεγει.

The devil took my woman

Rose before the dawn

Flew out to a hilltop

As her spirit filled up

She tore a fawn to pieces

And made a fleece of

That little fawn

The devil held a wolf pup

To my woman’s breast

She just calmly smiled

Thought it was her child

She nursed a bear

Snakes in her hair

Loose and untressed

The devil took my woman

He gave her the power

As a fortune-teller

Blind as Helen Keller

Strumming on a lyre

With a bolt of fire

He broke my tower

Then the devil took me

Turned me to a goat

Well, up came the priestess

Wearing a meat dress

Like a housewife

She grabbed a stone knife

And slit my throat

This is true: I had eggs today with Michael Coss and young Mike Junior.  He remains a king among men, if that needs saying.

We're all swinging and we're all satisfied.  Happy birthday, Poppa!