The Clash may live by the river
as rats reconnoiter sunken ships
and somewhere in Southwark a
play will ensue, top-bill or slide-
me-in-standby: just let me see a
still-life drawn out dynamically!
Tennessee Williams tells all in
Monk’s local tavern, a cry quite
far from abandoned dark boxes
of grounded confessions, taken
by God-forbid primates less fit
to fill pews than bowling shoes.
There’s Leona, a barmaid, tally-
queen of lives under-blown and
overseen, at least by those who
go in and order a few (Monk will
make do, mostly to
stall the cop
in damn you);
Leona is listening.
The Doc is a female drunk who
stops in to rebunk her calling to
the oath Hippocratic; today she
shifts fifty abortion bucks to
the
shush fund for births-gone-bad
and a mother by-the-way killed.
There’s Bill, belaboring the bar
and her maid with brash touch-
stones and Violet, equally cheap,
jerking the place to Pluto moon
of choice, whispering “take
Nix”
(’cause of course the mood fits).
Take in whomever you like, as
renders run-away nature of fan-
dom and fate. Leona you won’t
forget anytime soon, not by her
merits or things she’d presume;
she suffers, instead, as an
oblate.
--inspired by Dan and Katerina's trip to London
and Confessional at the Southwark Playhouse
No comments:
Post a Comment