Prufrock Turns 103
Time for you and time for me
[to hear J. Alfred read his poem, click the arrow below]
South of menopause,
cannot really be
the he is going to be
So, madam, be careful
not to compliment
those cuff links
or soon enough
you’ll find yourself
throwing off that shawl,
turning towards the window,
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
3 thoughts on “Prufrock Turns 103”
Written in sonnet, right?
Not quite, Rodney. A sonnet is fourteen lines or rhymed iambic pentameter.
Here’s a sonnet (by me, of course)
Advice to Method Actors Portraying Charles Bukowski
First, you gotta plow and pit your face
so infants in strollers burst bawling
when they see you on the sidewalk pacing,
stopping, grabbing your pen, scrawling
lines that stagger like drunks across
that coaster lifted from some shit hole joint
in East L.A. You gotta, of course, toss
down at least a fifth of rotgut and do a couple of joints
before noon. Feel the hurt her repulsion brings
when you notice the cute salesgirl wince.
Whine about the wine, the tattered wings
of that heartbreaking filly Pegasus.
Think Milton’s Satan in a methadone clinic,
self-destructive, self-loathing, sardonic.
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