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posted November 27, 2008 12:02 AM         

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Club Sky (an old poem)

Day and Night headline at Club Sky.
They’re lovers on the side,
Opposites attracting
then distracting each other for added drama.
Night’s all dark and brooding, of course,
hussied up in some black lingerie,
cocktail in one hand, cigarette in another.
Day’s sunny ambition creates
a cheeseball propensity for pastels and lapels.
He spends his time on a treadmill, plays golf for hours
while Night hovers around in the background, threatening suicide.
Day asks what the hell she’s waiting for;
he could use the promotion and the hours –
He’s already got a couple of places that let him headline without her.
But unfortunately Night took her case to the man upstairs
and slept with some people for a similar deal.
Tramp, Day thinks.
Which one of them is better, more needed?-
In the dressing room, before Night’s act,
Day gripes about her racy get-up -
Why does she always have to look like that?
Night pours herself a martini, nibbles an olive,
calls Day a Mama’s Boy.
Day knocks the drink out of her hand.
Night’s moonbeam eyelids tremble and shake,
she weeps an ominous alley,
looks around for a razor blade,
then tries to slit her wrists on the zipper of Day’s pants.
She gives up on suicide,
gives Day head instead, then is late again for her set.
Now her nephew Dusk has to go up there-
It’s the same scenario –
Night just can’t pass up a cocktail or sex.
And while Day’s body pours sweat into Night,
their words make no sense,
it’s always black or white,
opposites attracting, then reacting.
At Night’s place,
Day can’t sleep because Night’s stalkers loiter in hallways.
They moan and mope around, mumbling.
A bunch of whiny artists,
all moony-eyed and lost.
The poets leave black roses and suicide notes on the doorstep.
Day gets jealous, has a moment of insecurity;
do they all hate him?
He flashes his sunny smile through the window,
watches the groupies scatter away from the porch for sunglasses,
amphetamines, and espresso.
Night comes home drunk in a taxi, has to be helped in by the driver.
By now Day is ready to go,
bathed, clean, and wearing Bermuda shorts.
He smugly tells Night that he’s going to jog to work
because he feels good.
Night throws an ashtray at Day;
he ducks.
She calls him a predictable prick.
He grabs her wrists, wrestles her down to the bed,
tries to feel her up, but Night’s being a b!tch.
She scratches his face with Nosferatu talons.
They screw and Day is late for work – again.
Now Dawn, his cousin, has to fill in for him with her side act–
It’s the same scenario -
Day really is a predictable prick.
He won’t take a vacation,
Night is tired of her job, but needs the money.
Day loses people to her all the time,
tries to keep his act tight and white,
but too many people get bored.
He tries to keep it interesting with cloudiness,
but then people move to Florida.
Now he changes his act all over the place,
and it’s getting harder to keep track of the audience.
Day wants to kill off Night, but he knows he’d get canned.
He tries to make peace, takes her out to Sunday brunch.
Night falls asleep in her mimosa,
her cigarette ash falls onto the table linen –
She only wakes up when the waitress drops off another drink.
Day looks over the menu and asks for prune juice,
orders tofu and sprouts,
then lights up a fat cigar and pis*es everyone off.
The manager shows up and politely tells him to put it out.
Do you know who I am? Day demands.
The poor manager impotently slumps away,
silently swearing to give up the Day shift.
Night’s moonbeam eyelids tremble and shake.
She looks Day up and down,
calls him a poseur.
He leaps up and tries to strangle Night,
They struggle and fight
then wind up screwing on the table top,
amidst tofu and ashes,
spilled prune juice, broken glasses -
Now both are late for their acts,
and it’s the same scenario,
opposites attracting, then attacking one another
for being true to their nature,
and the busloads come in,
grow impatient with Day and Night’s predictable lines,
while Dusk and Dawn promise nothing
yet eagerly do their jobs without question,
and the audience turns its attention and wonder
to the humble apprentices of Club Sky.

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Posts: 13977
From: Pleasanton, CA, USA
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posted November 29, 2008 12:18 AM         

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Interesting. Sounds like Capricorn (Day) and Cancer (Night).

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posted November 30, 2008 02:17 AM         

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It's a ramble. I wrote it when I met my ex years ago. lol .

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posted December 01, 2008 11:09 AM         

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I think it's brilliant. Maybe it could use a tiny touch of smoothing... but it might be because I'm not firing with all cylinders yet today and I might have just stumbled over a few parts. Either way, the concept is excellent and it flows like a story, it's just brilliant.

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posted December 01, 2008 08:54 PM         

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Thanks, Mystic
It's not really my writing style at all, but it was fun to write and try something different

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From: 11/6/78 11:38am Boston, MA
Registered: Aug 2004

posted December 02, 2008 08:40 AM         

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More impressive than most of what we see on these boards.
Quite a few clever images, lines, ideas...

But, me, being one of those
"moaning, moping, mumbling,
whiny artists, all moony-eyed and lost,"
singing hackneyed praises to the Night, and
"getting attacked for being true to my nature",
I have to share a poem of my own,
in defense of my type:

The Artist

He stares off into space
He's full of grace

His eyes are full of moon
But he'll say something soon
You'll understand

Sometimes he forgets
All the things he knows
He's kind of old

But every now and then
He's really very Zen
Or getting close

You might think he's deaf
That he's got nothing left
But you'd be wrong

He hears between the lines
And answers every crime
It won't be long

He'll sing a song
So strong

~ hsc

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Posts: 9197
From: 11/6/78 11:38am Boston, MA
Registered: Aug 2004

posted December 02, 2008 08:51 AM         

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"The Story of An Artist" ~ Daniel Johnston

Listen up and I'll tell a story
About an artist growing old
Some would try for fame and glory
Others aren't so bold

Everyone, and friends and family
Saying, "Hey! Get a job!"
"Why do you only do that only?
Why are you so odd?

We don't really like what you do.
We don't think anyone ever will.
It's a problem that you have,
And this problem's made you ill."

Listen up and I'll tell a story
About an artist growing old
Some would try for fame and glory
Others aren't so bold

The artist walks alone
Someone says behind his back,
"He's got his gall to call himself that!
He doesn't even know where he's at!"

The artist walks among the flowers
Appreciating the sun
He does this all his waking hours
But is it really so wrong?

They sit in front of their TV
Saying, "Hey! This is fun!"
And they laugh at the artist
Saying, "He doesn't know how to have fun."

The best things in life are truly free
Singing birds and laughing bees
"You've got me wrong", says he.
"The sun don't shine in your TV"

Listen up and I'll tell a story
About an artist growing old
Some would try for fame and glory
Others aren't so bold

Everyone, and friends and family
Saying, "Hey! Get a job!"
"Why do you only do that only?
Why are you so odd?

We don't really like what you do.
We don't think anyone ever will.
It's a problem that you have,
And this problem's made you ill."

Listen up and I'll tell a story
About an artist growing old.
Some would try for fame and glory
Others just like to watch the world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_RbSAwMa3U

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From: Pleasanton, CA, USA
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posted December 02, 2008 12:21 PM         

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I haven't heard the song, but I like those lyrics.

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posted December 03, 2008 12:07 PM         

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The cleverly strung together words read like a fascinating story MyVirgomask~

I can't write in that manner, but I am inspired by those who can

Writing is neither a contest or conquest, so it wonderful that you step out and write differently sometimes..thank you..

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posted December 13, 2008 08:22 PM         

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Thanks

Heart, I'm loving the Artist poem!

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