Not Quite Poetry

arrest this pathetic man

exuberant spilling love hate sinatra ramma lamma ding dong bang. she wore cute glasses and drove an old dodge dart that rode like a boat, like a real boat with a motor in the sea and i'm disgusted that i'm the guy dancing in the streets and annoyed that i don't want to play my banjo anymore when i can see her instead and dates will happily eat into my time while there's a bar downstairs that sings for us so we dance drunken and foolish.

the city is paris in the 50's, the city is empty and old with aging smiles that are sleepy and dreaming to the thoughts of love when every touch and word was a quiver. there is panic and fear on every dashboard and doorstep that manages to be superseded with forceful, forgetful passion.

she likes records and me, and van kleef behind the bar is singing the lines that are echoed a romantic moment later by frankie whom is crooning like a hound for all the retirement communities in florida, the streets of alameada california, and the long time dwellers of hhhooooolly wood.

skin like wine and i'm no one i knew as she drops the dart in drive cruisin to home some thirty blocks north.

barf.