Smoke and Substance
For Renata Dumitrascu
Light up in this restaurant;
you might as well
bomb a few dozen perfect bodies
politely wounding their food.
It’s dark here, and we’ve all heard
of shadows—why should we speak of them again?
What does an old, hairy shadow actually know
as it watches the patrons regard one another’s
heavy gold skin? Under a fragile lamplight
it’s still not dark enough in this establishment
to light up and sit in a cloud
of your own smoke.
You’ll have to close your two mouths
to do that
there.
posted by steve barron at 9:45 AM
16 Comments:
I don't get it.
-DL
Oh, wait, I think I see. Smoking in public=suicide bombing. But the narrator says this ironically, like he doesn't really agree.
Got it (I think?) But I still don't like it. It gives me the creeps. "what does an old, hairy shadow actually know?", fer real.
-DL
Thank you for your comments, DL.
Smokers are the scum of the earth, that's what I thought the poem meant.
I felt like the poem was pointing its finger at me--all those You's. i felt like the poem was making fun of me for being a human being.
That's a fascinating take, Amy. Thank you for stopping by.
Are you serious with this? Or this this another one your stupid jokes?
This poem sucks eggs.
We need Monday Love in here STAT.
On Foetry.com
I say we scrap this online game
Where warriors are corpulent and slow
Where swords are timid, short and brittle
And crumble after just one blow
Fizz…
Should merchants not be rich and cruel?
Their shops awash in argent luster?
Such armor, halberds, formidable spikes
To waken all the valor you can muster
Instead this shop sells funnel cakes and gin
Incontinence pads and chili fries
Its patrons sit around and shoot the shit
Afraid to look into each other’s eyes
Fart.
They talk of monsters, but in furtive whispers
They draw a mustache on the portrait of the Queen
Then scurry home at once, in fearful agitation
Lest anyone discover where they’ve been
The owner tried to start a revolution
To ignite their hearts with shocking information
But they have mortgages, and manuscripts, and barely
Enough backbone for anonymous protestation
In this, our lost country called Poetry
Tyrant witches rule, and warty dragons crap
On marble palaces once fair and noble
Every stream spews poison, every path a trap
Gotcha!
Where are the mighty sons and daughters to say
This land belongs to me today!
To get over their abject trepidation
And unsheathe their swords for poetic liberation
Dammit.
Now that I'm sober I regret my poetic response. I think yours is perfect.
Renata,
I *adore* your poetic response. Thank you for stopping by.
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My workshop urge kicked in. Thoughts of a non-poet:
Light up in the restaurant;
you might as well
bomb the bodies
politely wounding their food.
It’s dark here, and we’ve heard
of shadows—why speak to them again?
What can a shadow know
of patrons searching the gold
of each other's skin? Under lamplight
there's still deficient dark
to light up, to sit in a cloud
of your own smoke.
You’ll have to close your two mouths
to do that there.
I quite like your version, Poetastin.
This is complete dogshit, Steve--I am revoking your poetry membership card.
xxxjimmy
Thank you for your comments Jim. I would never want to belong to any club that'd have me as a member.
ciao manhattan,
mallie urn
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