we interrupt this métier
to answer macabre knell
Got myself bitten by
gothic mourning bell
(not my fault! don't judge, keep reading)
of mourning and morning
and many hues of grey
doves in morning suit
locomotive gray ombre
( don't even get me started on why it's "grey" as in "earl" and gray as in Eeyore..
death on little cat feet
or is that fog at play?
it becomes Electra to go
round roulette wheel today
got up in bombazine
counts jet rosary beads
corseted in her hated
a thneed's what she needs
place your bet, milady
as the croupier tells his tale
watch now will the die turn
a snake-eyes shade of pale?
tough luck you lose, you
drank fizzy lifting drink
cocktail called "bitterness"
one part gin, one printer's ink
black lipstick stained tumbler
tumbles down to the floor
You called for another yet
couldn't even find the door
well that's what you get
for dicing with the dead
the wound-too-tight has-been
who's about to lose her head
the doom's come upon you
in your spiked Flavor Aid
you got slipped a Mickey
now watch your color fade
(and here's another of my famous sexy kazoo key changes)
Rise up sister and dance
puppeteer loosed your strings
Time to can-can like you can-can
shake loose grudge-holding wings
let the pigeon drive the bus
crack the mirror side to side
flip Rorschach psychedelic
Play the acid punk B-side
Here we go, gonna get loud now...
So before you ask, what the actual just happened, I'll tell you. I don't know. I was clacking along down my reluctant gothic poem trail, when all of a sudden, Mother of Tarquin! Cue the sound the cartoon makes when it backs up and starts over. It's like a Polish dzu sound. With the z, j plus sh sound. Like bezsh-oop, plus the double take doy-yoy-yoy-yoing. Hey, don't laugh. You try spelling out what a cartoon sound sounds like)
Anyway, that is what has happened to my poem. It has done a double take with about face. And as so often happens, the poor poet never saw it coming. Here was I just trying to write my psychedelic verse, for once, without tying it up in any sensible ending. I wanna do one of those urinal or paint drip works of art thingys that gets understood. When it's just a blasted bed pan!! And if like Man Ray or Jackson Pollock it makes millions, well, all in a day's work.
So I wasn't even on board to go down the bloody gothic route. I mean, look at the picture AI made me. It's so Helen Mirren, Winchester--esque. ( I hate anything -esque.) The "Rorschach" in the dew of the window. Bangs head hard on desk, requests refill on the gin and ink drink. Even that sounds Seuss-esque!!
But did I quibble when the muse-whatever called, nooo, Not I!! Needs must, I soldiered on. And we turned left, Again!! It's that damned pigeon's fault.
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