Prufrock Turns 103

at the Commodore Club

Prufrock Turns 103

Time for you and time for me

[to hear J. Alfred read his poem, click the arrow below]

 

South of menopause,

unmarried

straight

women

and men

cannot really be

platonic friends.

 

When push

comes

to thrust,

the he is going to be

libidinous.

 

So, madam, be careful

not to compliment

those cuff links

or straighten

that lapel,

or soon enough

you’ll find yourself

throwing off that shawl,

turning towards the window,

and saying,

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

2 thoughts on “Prufrock Turns 103

  1. 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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