May15

Small Town Musicians who Have Never Seen NY Play a Rhapsody in Blue

Posted on May 15, 2014 by goldenstarpoetry

the brash sound
of barraging horns
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream.

Nobody ever
speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
sun baking,
we stand naked,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake
no longer flows in a steady stream
but lies a stagnant body
as if,
holding up a glass vile
one could see the sun’s reflection through it’s
clear distorted flesh.

Still,
they play music
about the city
they have never seen,
a g o r a p h o b i c,
the l a n d s c a p e r o o m y;
All you need’s a ‘scraper on the skyline
to play a whole new tune
on the rooftops of your own
metropolis
land.

‘Cause,
if nobody bothered to save up the cash
next year or or last year
or the year before that
you can just
empty your pockets to the
dry riverbed
and hope it carries you upstream.

An exercise
in thought:
Think of yourself
as a bus on the way
or a fire escape
housing a homeless cat
or an open sinkhole in the street
and the endless plumbing below….
now, open your eyes:
you’re still in the same place,
aren’t you?

ii.

Penny Perfect, like a biscuit?
the brash sound
No says Penny Pie I’ve got three here
of barraging horns
here Penny Perfect wanna walk some?
enter a city they have never seen,
but only thought about in a dream
no says Penny Pie lemme stay here please
nobody ever speaks about that hamlet on the edge
Penny Perfect that’s fine sweet angel, and
where, sun baking, we stand naked,
Penny

Penny

Perfect.
running like children over a bridge
Gingham Gorgeous take a photo
whose lake no longer runs
Gingham Gwenny I’m no looker
in a steady stream
Gingham Gorgeous care to gambole
but lies a stagnant body, as if
no says Gingham Gwenny I feel tired
as if, holding up a glass vile
Gingham Gorgeous what of money? I’m broke and
one could see the sun’s reflection Through it’s clear distorted flesh
Gingham

Gingham

Gorgeous.

iii.

the brash sounds
of barraging horns, now dampened by sounds of rainfall
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream,

while white-washed walls wet and wither in the water .

Nobody, nobody ever speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
rain pouring,
we stand naked, open armed and empty,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake overflows in sound.