Poetry For Our Time

Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason. -Novalis


with one comment

Tickets tearing

Ice in rum and cokes clinking like the crystal ends of a chandelier

Lights flashing yellows, blues and pinks onto crowded skin

Bodies poured into cardigans, into tank tops, into t-shirts bearing see-and-be-seen slogans, into tight pants with cuffs at the ankle, in angled bangs, in faux hawks, in fedoras, in ironic black trimmed glasses, in high heels, in bright shades of lipstick, in mauve eye shadow, in coy smiles

The bar tabs are running: bottles of smooth local wine, cheap draft beer, never American, except Brooklyn (because, home base) or PBR (because, the symbol of hipsterdom)

Bass strumming, piano jazzing, lounge music swinging as if from a different era (besides the 90s) mixed with early no-wave 80s with a touch of 1940s classicism, but we’re new-retro, so it’s all gravy, baby, it’s hip, it’s swinging, it’s fedora-wearing fun

A tin-tin-tin on the drum, the shake of baby rattles, of African songboards, of whisks brushing smoothly on taut tarp, jingle jangle onstage, offstage

Whistles from the crowd; a flash-flash, snap of the cameras

Heads nodding, fingers tapping next to glasses of beer gathering condensation from all the heat going on in here

Waitresses scurrying, bartends bustling, the house manager tending

All enjoying

It’s smooth, it’s hip, it’s Tuesday night in the city, baby

Enjoy the ride


Written by TheUndomestic

February 18, 2009 at 6:18 am

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. TUESDAY night? Damn. I wish my Tuesday nights were that fun.


    February 18, 2009 at 12:40 pm

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